


So Who Was Tom Barrow?

by Pastache



Series: Thomas Barrow, A Biography: It's Only Funny When it Happens to Someone Else [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Backstory, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastache/pseuds/Pastache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part One: Thomas Barrow’s life up to where we met him in series 1, extrapolated from cannon information. Including: a funeral, a wedding, a cricket ball, an improper use of the word "cunt", and The Translated Works of Sexual Perversions,</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victor

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure- there are some racist and antisemitic slurs used in this chapter, entirely for realism purposes regarding acurate period language, not at all meant to offend in any way, but if that sort of thing bothers you be aware that there are young boys sniggering at naughty words in this chapter, which includes that sort of language... without further ado, enjoy

            “What’s ‘marriage’?”

            “Marriage is the bond of God an’ law between man ‘n’ woman- between two people who want to live a life together, raise children, and provide for each other. It’s what ‘appens when you’re older.”

            “Do I ‘ave to get married?”

            “I know it seems a funny idea now, Tom, but I promise when yer older, you’ll see the benefits- it’s what ev’ry young lady aspires to and ev’ry young man’s duty is; to find a wife, care for ‘er, and provide for ‘er- s’how you know you’re a man.”

            “Do I ‘ave to marry a _girl_?”

            “Well,” a chuckle, “what else would you be marrying?

            “I don’t _like_ girls.”

            “You will son, when yer a bit older, you will.”

            A hesitation. “Will I?”

            “Don’t worry, I was the same as you at your age- once you grow up you notice that girls might not be so bad as yer first thought. And then you find that you like one girl very much, and that’s when you know you’ve found a wife.”

            “Oh.” A thoughtful pause. “’Ow d’you make babies?”

            “ _That_ , Tom, is not something to think about until yer much, much older.”

 

…

 

Thomas wasn’t very popular at school- he was a little over-zealous with some of the boys, and used to wait for ones he was particularly fond of in the playground- to pounce on them and wrestle them to the ground. He was a good fighter, but the boys got tired of Thomas’ rough housing and soon learnt to shove him away.

            “Stop _pushing_ Tom- ‘s not fair.”

            “Can’t you play _with_ us for once?”

            “Tom! Stop it that _hurts_!”

            “Oh Tom go away if y’can’t play properly.”

They seemed to be able to tell something was off- Thomas himself couldn’t make sense of it; why the boys didn’t understand that he was only fighting because he _liked_ them, and he wanted to be friends- he wasn’t sure how else to express himself. His schoolmates got weary of him following them around, and would push Thomas until he fell, laughing when he started to cry.

           

….

 

Thomas tottered out of the workshop where his father worked, fiddling with the cuff of a shirt that was by now much too small for him. He went and sat at the small desk in the back of the shop and started practicing, the sounds of his father shooting sparrows in the garden a reassuring presence. There wasn’t enough money to carry on school, so when he’d turned eleven his father had gotten him books that’d been passed on through the family (or that he’d begged or found), and instructed Thomas to read and learn everything in them- copy it out page by page until he was just as clever as any child in a classroom. It was hard work, and Thomas’ tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth in fierce concentration.

 

…

 

            “Hello there young man, is the older Barrow about?”

            “He jus’ left- can I ‘elp you with somethin’?” thirteen year old Thomas stood straight, as his father had instructed him to do, and smiled warmly at the well-kept man in front of him. He knew Mr Wilton: a good friend of his fathers.         

            “Well my youngest boy, Victor, you’ve met my Victor haven’t you, Tom?” A nod in confirmation; they had met, or at least set eyes on one another. “He knocked over the piece that I bought from your father not two weeks ago- I need a new glass cover for the face- d’you know the type I need?”

            “Yes Mr Wilton- they’re at th’back.” Thomas moved to gently wrap the item needed, white gloves on to stop a smear appearing on the polished surface.

            “Your old man’s been training you up I see.”

            “Yes, Mr Wilton- so that I can take over th’business when I come of age.”

            “Is that what you want to do?”

            The question took Thomas by surprise, and the smile that went with it churned his insides a little. He cleared his throat and focused carefully on the tissue paper in front of him. “I suppose so. I like clocks. Dunno what else I’d do.”

            “Well you’re far better behaved than my children- if I tried to get them into the newspaper business… well, anyway. If you’re looking for something a little different, and you’d behave as well for me as you would for Mr Barrow Senior…”

            “’Course I would, Mr Wilton.”

            “Good lad.” Mr Wilton smiled again and Thomas’ ears felt a little warm. “Then I’m sure I could find you a newspaper round- or maybe an printing job- you can read and write and all that?”

            “Yessir. Although,” he didn’t want to be caught out, “I can’t type, Mr Wilton.”

            “That’s no worry, I’m perfectly happy to train you up- free of charge.” He clapped Thomas on the shoulder and Thomas beamed. “Well, ask your old man- see if I can’t steal you away for a few days or a week- paid work for a job well done. I could use a young pair of eyes and hands, if you’re willing.”

            “Well thank you Mr Wilton- I’d be glad t’do me best.” Thomas had to fight not to show how fast his heart was beating in his chest, “’Ere’s your clock face, Sir. And I’ll get back t’you about what you jus’ said- thank you again.” He handed the item over carefully, and Mr Wilton took it and fished it away in the inner pocket of his large coat.

            “Send a telegram and I’ll see what work I’ve got for you- tell your father it’s a favour I’d do for any son of a friend as good as your father’s been, if he needs persuading- I know how he can be.” He winked confidentially and Thomas felt that same curious feeling in his stomach. “Now, what do I owe you?”

            “Oh um- nothing, don’t worry about it Mr Wilton.” Thomas vehemently refused when Mr Wilton protested.

            “Well, I insist on buying your father a drink the next time I’m up, then. I look forward to seeing you in my office sometime very soon, Mr Barrow Junior.”

            No one had ever called him that before. He shook Mr Wilton’s hand- a firm, warm handshake that Thomas felt the imprint of even after the hand was gone, and with another knowing smile, a tip of his hat, and a tingle of the shop’s bell, the older man left.

 

Thomas frowned slightly, looking at his hand, and then swiftly checking his face wasn’t as red as it felt, glancing at the mirrored display in front of him. It didn’t seem to be obvious, _thank the Lord_. He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat again, wondering if he would still seek the admiration of his elders when he was grown- and if younger men would feel the same way towards him. _It’s the strangest, strongest feeling,_ Thomas thought, flexing his fingers in his gloves and running a hand through his ruffled hair, kept in order only by the fingers he combed through it. He wondered what feelings for girls would be like in comparison.

 

His father did allow Thomas to travel up to London eventually, to ‘learn the ways of the world’- and granted him two weeks for training, and a promise to Mr Wilton that Thomas would work for him for one month out of every three, until he came of age. Thomas boarded the train with a suitcase of only his smartest clothes, and was permitted to stay in the spare room of the large house, opposite the room of Victor (the youngest son).

 

In the beginning Thomas was unbearably shy and embarrassed about his shabby clothes and rough accent, which stuck-out against the background of formal tones in the rest of the household, in addition to his complete lack of knowledge for proper etiquette (what was one supposed to do to a person dressed in uniform who offered to dress you, except stare at them?). So he kept mostly to his room, worked hard, and grew increasingly desperate for even the smallest word of praise from Mr Wilton. When Mr Wilton pointed him in the direction of his expansive library, Thomas took it upon himself to read and read and _read_. Shakespeare, Dickens- though his favourite was Hans Christian Anderson, often he’d have to be collected in the evenings, curled up in a quiet corner, and put to bed. He didn’t see the man’s son until his fourth month in Mr Wilton’s service- nearly a year after he had first appeared with the offer- as the young man had been away at boarding school.

            “Are all poor people so desperate to prove themselves?”

            Thomas turned from where he had been furiously practicing typing page after page of lettering, each quicker than the last. “You don’t look _that_ rich. And ‘m not _that_ poor.” He turned back to his typewriter.

            “I know you. I saw you with your father, in the clock shop.” Thomas didn’t respond, so the boy tried again. “You speak oddly. You’re very working class.”

            This time Thomas turned and stood smartly in front of Victor. This untitled _boy_ ought to consider himself lucky his father had more money than most- and he ought to remember his father wasn't _born_ rich, like he was pretending. “ _You’re_ th’one that speaks funny- I’d rather be workin’ class, than a posh, stuck up _sod_ any day.”

            “What did you call me? That was utterly vulgar,” Victor sounded delighted. “Say it again!” Thomas stared and Victor sighed and turned to the foor, checking to make sure no one was in earshot, before he shut it, turned back to Thomas, and walked towards him. “Go on- say it again!”

            “Posh, stuck-up sod?” Thomas found himself backed into sitting back on his stool.

            “What does it mean?”

            “What, ‘posh’?”

            “No, clot, what does ‘sod’ mean?”

            It was a word Thomas’ father often used behind the back of rude or distasteful customers- only when he thought Thomas wasn’t listening. “It means… a rude or bad or stupid person- but ruder.”

            “Sod.” Victor tasted the word. “Sod, sod, sod.”

            “Don’t call me that.” Thomas snapped, “and you can’t ever say it around adults or people that might rat; it’s a very _very_ bad word.”

            “Know any other good ones?” Victor sat down on the floor, and when Thomas was gestured to he awkwardly sat and joined Victor, enjoying the attention he was receiving despite himself.

            “If I tell you, what will you give me?”

            “I don’t know- what do you want… money? I’ll give you my weekly allowance how about that?”          

            “No, I don’t want yer money.” Thomas had been told to take nothing except that which he’d earnt honestly.

            “Well then how about I teach you how to speak properly?”

            “I don’t want t’speak like you. I speak good enough anyway-”

            “ _Well_ enough, and no you don’t; you sound ridiculous living here and speaking like an urchin- people will like you more if you speak like me. I’m ever such a good teacher.” Victor looked at Thomas in earnest and suddenly Thomas couldn’t say no.

            “Alright.”

 

Over the next two month-long visits to Wilton’s house Thomas learned how to clip his constantans and use words like ‘surely’ and ‘rather!’ with correct intonation- and Victor learnt a choice number of phrases too offensive to list. The lessons went on into the night, when Thomas had finished work and Victor had finished tutoring. In the evening the boys would be put to bed, lie obediently for ten minutes and then rush to meet one another. Sometimes, Victor brought the books he had been given by his tutor to learn from, fascinated by Thomas’ way of snapping them up and begging for an hour or two with them, when he himself couldn’t find one interesting thing between the covers.

Today they had settled in Thomas’ room, as Victor had been the first to risk the walk down the corridor, and there they sat: cross-legged on the floor opposite one another.

            “I suppose the next thing I should do is teach you cricket. I’m _very_ good.”

            “You say you’re very good at everything, Victer.”

            “Vict _or_. And that’s ‘Master Wilton’ to you, you lowly sod.”

            “Bastard.”

            “Bugger.”

            “Mar.”

            “God-damned pissmaster poor boy.”

            The boys erupted into giggling until Victor sat up very straight, eyes wide,

            “ _Damn_ it- I forgot! I have something to show you! Excuse me.” He scampered out of the room. Thomas sat up and waited on the floor until the younger Wilton returned, a book furtively tucked under his arm, and placed it before Thomas with apprehension. Thomas read aloud,

            “ _The School of Venus: otherwise known as Ladies’ Delights.”_ The book was old. Very old in fact: nearly falling apart. “What is it?” He wrinkled his nose and Victor leaned forward, speaking in an excited whisper.

            “I found it in the library- all the way up on the very top shelf in the _Natural Sciences_ section: I was looking for something to give you - and I saw this in the corner. When I skimmed it… well, read the first bit!”

            Thomas, curiosity piqued, turned the cover and read the introduction.

            “What’s ‘fucking’?”

            “Lovemaking.” Victor said absently.

            “What’s that?”           

            “You know- how you make babies… well, read the first section, it explains everything.”

            Very aware of Victor’s eyes on his face, Thomas started to read. For twenty minutes he sat silently, turning redder and redder as Victor switched between reading with him and watching his reactions. At one point Thomas just stilled and whispered the word ‘cunt’, to Victor’s extreme delight. Eventually Thomas slid the book across the floor.

            “Disgusting! Who would ever want t’do anythin’ like that?”

            “I think it’s marvellous!” Victor quietened a moment, and then said insistently. “Read the second bit.”

            “No I don’t want to- it’s making me feel… _strange._ ”

            That seemed to get Victor even more excited, “ _Yes_ that’s the- keep reading. Go on, trust me.”

            Thomas gingerly fetched the book and resumed reading- he kept stopping and trying to tell Victor he didn’t want to read anymore but he was urged onwards again and again, until he finished the final page. By now evening had well and truly become night.

 

Thomas now sat, knees drawn up to his chin, very red in the face. “It got even more repulsive as it went on- I wonder who wrote it -it’s so… _obscene_.” He giggled and whispered, “cunt” again.

            “Cunt.” Victor repeated.

            “I don’t think I ever want to touch one of those- all th’pictures in the book…” Thomas shuddered, “Why do older boys want to do those things so badly- it sounds distgustin’.”

            “No- it’s the greatest pleasure one can have, I want to try it immediately.”

            “With a girl?”

            “Oh I don’t know,” Victor shrugged, “I’m sure if it really felt that good I wouldn’t mind.” Something mischievous glittered in his eyes. “Tommy boy, when you read it,” he learned forward conspiratorially, “did you start to _feel_ … odd?” Thomas shrugged and hugged his knees to his chest tighter. “In your stomach and… other places?”

            “I dunno. Maybe. What d’yer mean?”

            Victor smirked, “You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’re sitting like that. Let me see.”

            “Let you see?” Thomas’ eyes widened. “Why would you want to see? And anyway what’re you talkin’ about-”

            “Come on, Tommy boy, I felt the same when I read it- I want to see if yours is the same.”

            “My what?”

            “Your prick.”

            Thomas went red from his neck up to the tips of his earlobes, and his stomach started swirling. “This is odd, Victor- it’s makin’ me feel odd.”

            “Stop being such a kike about it- let me see.” With that Victor pounced and though Thomas wriggled, he wound up with Victor’s full weight on his chest, legs splayed awkwardly and Victor holding his hands pinned to the floor next to his shoulders.

            “Sod off Victor, let me _go_.” he hissed and Victor wriggled to keep Thomas still, his hips moving, and a fresh redness coloured Thomas’ cheeks. “This isn’t funny anymore-” He settled for noises of protest as Victor drew away just enough to see the obvious tent in his trousers.

            “Ah see- look Tommy boy _stop_ wiggling, it’s fine- look I’m the same, see?” He pulled away and gestured vaguely at his crotch. Thomas immediately drew his legs up and firmly wrapped his arms around them.

            “Bastard. That wasn’t funny.”

            “You know we should try it.” Victor said offhandedly.

            “Try what?”

            “What it says in the book.”

            “How- there aren’t any ladies about an’ anyway I don’t want-”

            “No, no the other thing.” Victor waved his hand at Thomas to quieten him; “It said you could do the same thing with your hand.”        

            “What? To each other?”

            “Yes- I don’t see why not- I mean we can’t ask a girl to do it because we'd never get her alone, and I don’t mind- we’re the same... it’s practice for when we get pushers of our own.”

            “You mean… we’d just-”

            “Stop obsessing about it.” Victor moved closer and Thomas’ eyes widened. “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.” He put his hand on Thomas’ knee and Thomas nearly flinched. He nodded slowly, after a moment, and watched Victor’s hand follow the curve of his thigh downwards, but looked away as he let his legs fall open. Victor’s hand went under the material of his pyjama bottoms, and Thomas clenched his jaw at the sudden friction.

            “Is that alright?” Victor gingerly moved his hand, shifting onto his knees and pushing Thomas’ legs apart to better pull down his trousers and ease his access.

            “Uh- yes- yes that’s- uh- good.” Thomas said quietly, heat pooling in his stomach.

            “Christ. It’s getting even stiffer just by doing this- how do we know when you’re finished?”

            “When the- _stuff_ \- comes out. D’you recon it’s really as good as th’book says?”

            “Well I suppose you’re about to find out.”

            Gingerly, and very slowly, Thomas turned back to look at Victor’s hand and then up at his face. Victor was looking at him intently; Thomas wanted to squirm. Was Victor’s the same as his? Did he look normal? Was it supposed to feel like this? A sudden urge seized him and he tilted his head forward and up to catch Victor’s lips- each movement getting more sloppy as formalities of how he’d seen lovers kiss goodbye was overwritten by the more biological hardwiring present in everyone who's reached puberty. He moved his hands to Victor’s cheeks and Victor put one hand around Thomas’ waist, pulling his body closer and flicking his tongue into Thomas’ mouth just as the book had said. Thomas was about to complain that he wasn’t being the woman in this imitation, but he found he didn’t mind at all. _What was this feeling- it feels like I’m going to- oh but- suddenly I’m- oh **that’s** what it was talking about- this must be it- oh- yes-_ Thomas’ whimpered softly and made a sort of strangled noise, told Victor to move his hand faster, and then felt a rush of-

            Thomas groaned, mouth gaping and eyes squeezing shut. He rutted his hips into Victor’s hand for a few seconds, opening his eyes to see Victor staring at him with parted lips, and groaned quietly again, terrified he was making too much noise- his heart beating deafeningly loudly in his ears. His head rocked back before his body slumped onto the backs of his elbows, and as his cheeks cooled and he became more interested in the mess over Victor’s hand.

            “If I’m completely honest with you, Tommy boy.” Victor wrinkled his nose, also staring at his hand, “This is disgusting. I’m going to get a hand towel for my turn.” He moved to the bedside table, leaving Thomas to pull up his trousers and feel minutely embarrassed. _Why feel embarrassed, it were just practicin’_ …

            “So what did it feel like?” Victor asked as he re-approached, towel in hand.

            “Amazin’. Jus’ like the book says- it’s the world’s greatest pleasure.” Thomas ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it gently.

            “Wow. Well I can’t wait for my turn, then.” Victor cast a significant look at his crotch.

            Thomas felt suddenly shy- _what if I’m not good enough to do it properly- what if Victor changes his mind? What if…_

            “Tommy? Are you alright, old chap?”

            “I… yes. Yes I think so. ‘m just…” _not nervous, why would I be nervous, I’m just..._

            “Don’t worry. You kind of figure out what to do- you just, sort of, _know_ … you don’t have to if you don’t want, though.”

            “No.” Thomas surprised himself, “I want to.” He pulled Victor’s hips sharply towards his own, pulling down his cotton trousers and Victor pushed his hips up to help Thomas wiggle the material down just enough, and then Thomas had a hand full of firm, warm flesh. He twisted his wrist, and Victor had been right- he already knew what to do- and felt another flush crawl over his face as he watched Victor bite his lip and moan under his breath, rutting his hips up after only a few seconds.

            “Ah- keep twisting your wrist at the end- that feels- wow. Goodness.”

            “I know.” Thomas grinned and leant forward to kiss Victor’s neck, seeking his lips and then working his way up Victor’s jaw, gently pressing his teeth into his earlobe and nipping the skin behind his ear.

            “Bloody Hell. Where did you learn that?”

            “I didn’t- I jus’- I jus’ wanted my mouth on you, ‘n’ that seemed the right thing to do.”

            “Righteyoh. By all means keep doing it.”

            Thomas dragged his free hand under Victor’s shirt, feeling spikes of heat go up through his stomach, and rubbed his thumb in circles, pinching Victor’s chest until Victor complained of the sting of it, but that faded away when Thomas felt Victor’s thighs tense and Victor started pleading for Thomas to do what he wanted, to rub him raw.

            “Christ- get the- get the towel because I think I’m about to- oh _crieky_.”

 

Thomas just about got the towel to the right place in time- caught up in the look of bliss that passed over Victor’s face. Then he noticed that Victor tended to ‘spend’ more than he did. _Was that normal?_ He looked at a small spill on his thumb and peered closely at it while Victor tidied himself up. Victor saw and wiped it away, throwing the towel to the bottom of a drawer.

            “Urgh, I hope it doesn’t smell. That was certainly something.”

            “Yes it was.”

            “I wonder what it will be like when we actually fuck someone.”

            Thomas couldn’t imagine doing anything of the sort with a girl- even those illustrations had made his nose wrinkle. _Is something wrong with me?_ Instead of asking he nodded. “Yeah. ’m sure it’ll be quite something.”

            “Still- until then we can do that to ourselves- I bet it’s almost as good when you do it to yourself.”

            “Well I wouldn’t mind if we…” Thomas tried to sound casual.

            “No- we shouldn’t get in the habit of it- we’ll get in big trouble if anyone ever found out.”

            Thomas frowned. “Why?”

            “Well it’s not something that two boys do together. _That_ was just a bit of fun- to figure it out the first time, because we’re friends.”

            “But we can’t get a baby or anythin’ like that- and we’re not allowed t’do it with a girl either. It’s not like we’re…”

            “Queer?”

            “What does that mean?”

            Here, for the first time, Victor hesitated. “I shouldn’t tell you. In the book I read about it, it says that if a boy finds that out before he’s started liking girls it can make him permanently that way- and you wouldn’t want that. When you first feel things for a girl, then I’ll tell you. Alright?”

            “Alright.” Thomas nodded and Victor excused himself, leaving Thomas feeling very small and alone on his floor.

 

From then on Thomas became obsessed with other men- wondering if they felt the same way he did- if they felt the same sort of thing he did when he looked at them- if he was normal- …if they somehow knew what he’d done and what he was thinking.

            He started getting hot under the collar, as old feelings were explained and new ones were explored. By night he lived the life of playful exploration and secret pleasure, and always wound up with Victor’s face in his mind at the critical moment. When he started losing traction with his work enough for Mr Wilton to notice, he knew he had to answer some of the questions chewing at him. But despite Thomas’ pestering, Victor wouldn’t tell him, wouldn’t even talk of the subject again, for fear of corrupting Thomas’ young mind.

            But Thomas couldn’t just ignore it, and so one night he went to Mr Wilton’s large library, telling Victor he was too tired for any late-night visits, and tiptoed around the shelves, a candle in hand.

 _How to find the word?_ It was doubtful there would be a definition in the Oxford Dictionary- but if Victor had found the other book amongst the _Natural Science’s_ selection…. Sure enough, when Thomas climbed haphazardly up to the tallest shelf (there was no ladder near enough, so his feet turned the shelves into one), and pulled out titles- ears cocked and arms straining- he found just-the book; _The Translated Works of Sexual Perversions,_ by someone German, and retreated to a quiet corner with it, flicking to the section at the back, and then to the ‘Q’s. If it was going to appear anywhere then this must be the right book. The candlelight made him squint at the tiny print, reading,

**_Queer:_ ** _Refers, in an informal sense, to a **sodomite** or effeminate man. See **Sodomite**._

Thomas frowned and dutifully followed through to ‘S’

            **_Sodomite_** _: an adjective, of, relating to, or characterized by a tendency to direct sexual desire toward another of the same sex 2: of, relating to, or involving sexual intercourse between persons of the same sex: an abominable and detestable crime against nature. See, **Buggery.**_

            Heart now caught in his throat, Thomas turned with growing resentment to ‘B’.

**_Buggery:_ ** _The criminal offence of anal or oral copulation by penetration of the male organ into the anus or mouth of another person of either sex, or copulation between members of either sex with an animal._

**_The Buggery Act 1533_ ** _: formally an ‘Act for the punishment of the vice of Buggerie’ (25 Hen. 8 c. 6)- “Buggery is an unnatural sexual act against the will of God and man.” The Act remained in force until it was repealed and replaced by the Offences against the Person Act 1828, whereby buggery was replaced with sodomy (see **Sodomy** ), and remained a capital offence until 1861. The death penalty has been replaced with imprisonment for between ten years and life, whilst attempted sodomy or ‘any decent assault upon any male person’ carries a sentence of between three and ten years’ imprisonment or up to two years with hard labour._

 

Without quite knowing why, Thomas was shaking. The words ‘desire’ and ‘same sex’ and ‘detestable’ were repeating in his head. Was he a sodomite? He’d never… he didn’t... what if Victor had been right? A small creak had Thomas up like a flash and replacing the book on the shelf, running back towards his room and huddling under the blankets. _I didn’t… I wasn’t… am I going to prison?_ He clawed at his head, taking small hitched breaths and tried to hold off from panicking. Maybe he’d turned himself this way- maybe if he’d never touched Victor it wouldn’t have happened… _I don’t really want to do those things, do I? Every boy ‘likes’ men like I do- it’s normal male affection, what else could it be…_

            When Thomas woke up the next morning, after a restless night, his pillow was still damp under his cheeks.

 

Over the next few days Thomas kept his head down and his posture slumped. His speech re-gained its accent and he started getting snappy. Worst of all, when Victor stopped in the corridor to talk to him, Thomas ignored him and walked past.

            “Tommy boy, wait, listen to what I’ve done-” Victor pulled Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas immediately flinched away.

            “Don’t touch me- leave me alone!”

            “What on earth is the matter-” But Thomas has already sprinted down the corridor and away.

 

Dinner that evening was an awkward affair. Thomas was eating silently, words circling just out of sight, and manners more than a little lax. Mr Wilton cast his eyes between the two boys: one was staring at Thomas, and the other had eyes only for his food. A quiet dinner was an occasional luxury, but with children involved it always felt stifling.

            “So, Tom, I hope you’re not feeling under the weather?”

            A glance up. “No, Sir.”

            “Good. I only say anything because there seems to be something going round- nothing serious but I had wondered… well, anyway… Victor, what did you study today?”

            A pause. “English language, father.” Victor said absently, then, as though he’d been bursting to say it all evening, “Tommy, I hope you’re all right.”

            “’m fine.”

            Mr Wilton sighed, “Don’t you think he’s a little old to be referred to as ‘Tommy’?”

            “But ‘Tom’ is such a working class name.” No response from Thomas, Victor frowned.

            “Oh really, Victor.” Mr Wilton was stopped from continuing his telling off by the Butler appearing and handing a small envelope to him.

            “Professor Rosenbloom regrets t’inform you that he will be handing in his notice, effective immediately.”

            “What? Has something come up?”

            If the butler noticed Victor’s sudden stillness he didn’t do anything to help him. “No m’lord. It appears Master Wilton has caused some offense and the Professor refuses to continue his services here. He hopes you will understand but-”

            “Victor! What the devil is all this about?” At last Thomas looked up, cautiously, glancing at Victor.

            “Well- I- erm- it was an accident, father I-”

            “What kind of accident?”

Victor bowed his head, stealing a glance at Thomas before shaking his head. “I’m afraid I said a rather rude word.”

            “And what _exactly_ did Professor Rosenbloom do to receive such treatment?”

           “Well- I mean… oh, hang it.” Victor lifted his head to look his father in the face, “I called him a old _cunt_ because he is one, and I couldn’t be bothered to listen to him blather on anymore.”

            “I _beg your pardon_?” Mr Wilton’s tone was not friendly. Thomas stared in vague horror.

            “I called him a _cunt_ , father.”

            “Don’t speak that way in front of the servants.” He turned his head to speak to the Butler. “Thank you, Johnson. Would you please inform the staff not to disturb us here until I send for them- you’re excused for the time being.”

            “Very good, m’lord.” The butler nodded and faded back out of the room. Victor bit his lip, losing his nerve. Mr Wilton cleared his throat and took a breath.

            “How _dare_ you do this to us. I cannot _believe_ you would embarrass the family in this way- to a _Professor_ \- and you made me listen to this from the Butler! Do you know what trouble you’re in? Do you?”

            The English shout is a bitterly polite voice raised just above the volume that should be uttered indoors. In the intimacy of an empty dining room, it was deafening.

            “I’m sorry father- I didn’t think and I-”

            “This is the way a child behaves! Not my son- on the brink of manhood- you won’t be able to be seen in society for at least a year  after this behaviour- don’t you understand the severity of this… _incident_?”

            It seemed Victor did, because when he next spoke he tried to defend himself. “But that’s just it, father! I didn’t want to say before, but I can’t bear to not have you know the truth. And that truth is…” Mr Wilton’s lips pursed in expectation, Victor looked at Thomas. “Tommy- Tom told me to say it.”

            “What?” The word was out of Thomas’ mouth before it had occurred to him to think it.

            “He told me to ask the Professor what- _that word_ meant and I suppose I knew it was something rude, but I didn’t know _how_ rude and I-”       

            “-did no such thing!” Thomas’ face flushed with anger.

            “Look, Tom- I know it’s beastly of me to tell on you, but try to understand.” Victor sought private eye contact,

            “ _Understand_ \- you can’t- you-”

            “I _can’t_ lose my position for you, Tom I’m sorry-”

            “Sorry?! You God-damned-”

            “ _Quiet_. Both of you.” Mr Wilton said forcefully and both boys settled- Thomas glaring at Victor with his fury clenched in his fists. Victor looked utterly miserable.

            “Tom. I’m very disappointed in you.”

            “But-”

            “Don’t, Tom.” Mr Wilton said quietly. “I know that all of this may have been a game to you- but I’m afraid the way you’ve behaved is completely _unacceptable_.” Thomas looked like he was about to burst with anger, “I’m sorry but I’ll have to send you home- I… I don’t think you should come back here, at least until this whole thing is sorted out. You’ll leave in the morning.”  
            “Fine. I suppose it’s easier to blame the workin’ boy stayin’ with you than the vain, spoilt, selfish _brat_ sittin’ in front of you-”

            “Tom I-”

            “Now that’s _enough_ of that. I’ll spare you trouble for this out of kindness to your father, but don’t presume _for a second_ to talk about my son like that. Not ever. You are excused.”

            Thomas practically sprinted from the dining room, tears in his eyes, storming to his room and jerkily throwing clothes into a bag before sitting on his bed with his chin on his knees. He sat like that for a long time. He thought Victor liked him- why would he… _because that’s what all rich children do. Stuck up, privileged, spoilt little rich children think of nothing but themselves because that’s all they know how to do._

 

He sat there for a while, blaming Victor for the disgrace he was going home to, the shame and unbearable disappointment Mr Wilton put on him, and even for the fact Victor liked girls when he didn’t. It was all Victor’s fault. He sulked to his bag and pulled out his nightclothes, settling into the spare room’s bed for the last time and trying to burn _The Little Mermaid_ into his memory so he wouldn’t need the words in front of him to recall the story.

 

He lay in bed, alone. The lights in the house were out and the smell of dinner gone. Usually around this time Victor would be here and they would- _creak_

            “Go away. Traitor.”

            “Look, Tommy boy” Thomas rolled over, away from Victor, “I couldn’t let you leave without explaining myself,” Victor approached the bed, “I couldn’t have my father angry with me- and I couldn’t think of anything else to say and you don’t have a position to lose… please talk to me, I couldn’t bear it if we didn’t leave it off as friends.”

            After an indignant silence Victor got up to leave, sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth, when Thomas turned his head and sat up,

            “D’you know what you’ve done? I know you don’t see me as ‘important’ or worth anythin’ compared t’you-”

            “That’s not even remotely-”

            “Don’t talk over me.” Thomas fumed. “You’ve come into my life- ruined everythin’ an’- an’ now you want to fob all yer problems off onto me too- ’s not fair. Or maybe it is.” The thunder went out of Thomas’ voice, “maybe this is God punishin’ me. I don’t care. ’m not sure I believe in Him, anyway.”

            “Tommy boy, I-”

            “Go away, Master Wilton. I’m goin’ tomorrow and I’ve gotta think of somethin’ to say about why ’m home early.”

            “Fine. I wish you wouldn’t be so touchy about it.” He hesitated. “And you’re sure that’s is the _only_ reason you’re quite so angry?”

            “Go. Away.”

            Victor paused, fumbled for some sentiment that he hadn’t already expressed, and with a small sigh crept back to his own room. Thomas sniffled and curled up into a ball.

 

The next day the silent carriage trip was long and boring, the train journey was long and boring- the hansom journey from the station was dull, and the slow walk up to his father’s front door felt like the longest part of the day. Already it was nearly dark outside, and the shadows stretched in front of him, up to his small fist banging on the old door. It opened.

            “Right. You’d better come in, then.” Thomas scurried through the door and reached the first step upstairs in silence.

            “Come downstairs when you’ve dropped off yer bags.”

            Lump in his throat, Thomas did as he had been asked; smoothed down his outfit in the bathroom mirror, adjusted his hair, waved to his sister sitting reading in her room, and walked downstairs as quietly as he could. Waiting by the fireplace was Mr Barrow, facing away from his son.

            “Sit.”

            Thomas took the nearest chair, and sat, fidgeting.

            “I got a telegram this mornin’.” Mr Barrow said evenly and Thomas stared at his fingers, hands placed firmly over his knees.

            “D’you know what was in that telegram, Tom?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Then surely you’re about t’tell me what a mistake it was- that there’s no way my son would ‘ave behaved like that: made a fool outta not only ‘imself in front of a valued customer and respected gentleman, but also ‘is family, and therefore, _me_ … Well?”

            “Sir I- it wasn’t what it seemed like- I didn’t-” He was cut off by a firm slap across his face.        

            “Oh yer didn’t, did you?”

            Thomas clutched his cheek and stood nervously, backing away from his father. “Don’t- please- I swear I didn’t- it were Victor… ‘e blamed me-”

            “You went up there to work! Not to mess around playing silly buggers with Mr Wilson’s son! You know what ‘is type are like- y’don’t ‘ave to give them any reason, and when push comes to shove you’re th’one that ends up in the shit.” He rubbed his forehead, suddenly tired. “Assume th’position.”

            “But- but Sir- I didn’t-” Thomas backed almost to the doorway.

            “ _Don’t_ snivel. You’ll take yer punishment like a man and you’ll learn a lesson from it. I can’t let you grow up this soft; trustin’ everyone around yer like they’ve always got yer back.” He pulled out a chair and set it in front of Thomas, jabbing his chest. “Th’only person who’s got your back is yourself- and you need t’learn that- need to learn not to get yourself into trouble. Stand straight!” he suddenly barked and Thomas instinctively squared his shoulders.

            “Yes, Sir.” He quickly stepped forward and knelt up in front of the chair, putting his arms through the back of it and closing his eyes. This was the worst bit; waiting, exposed. The small jingling sound of a metal belt buckle and then a few half-taken breaths... the swinging sound that always seemed like it would take longer before a line of pain formed, jerking Thomas’ shoulders and hips to the sound of leather snapping taunt, and Thomas buried his head between his arms on the wooden seat of the chair, biting his lip firmly, clamping down on a whimper.

            “Count, Tom.”

            “One.” He clenched his jaw. “Two.” He kept his voice as calm as he could. “Three.” If only his father would change the place he was hitting- the impulse to move away was forming Thomas’ hands to claws. “Four.” How long had it been since he’d last been punished? _Too long to soften the feeling._ “Five.” One for every year old he was- by twenty he should have grown out of needing it, said his father. “Six.” Just when he’d faded out the last blow there was another stripe demanding his attention. “Seven.” Pain was building at the back of his throat and “Eight” Came out choked. His father was spurred and the next two hits were harder and faster than the others. “Nine. _Ten_!” Thomas was digging his nails into the back of the chair, body twitching as he tried to hold out. “Eleven- t-twelve.” He said on an in breath, and let out a small groan instead of ‘thirteen’. His father again increased the violence of each swing and Thomas’ ‘fourteen’ and ‘fifteen’ were barely whimpered.

 

As with every other time, Mr Barrow put his belt back on, turned to the fireplace and left Thomas to pull himself together and walk stiffly up the stairs, shutting the door in his sister’s face when she tried to comfort him, and lying on his front, crying softly into his pillow. He cleaned his face carefully to hide any sign of it before he went downstairs to eat. Here everything resumed as though nothing had happened at all.


	2. The Milk Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interim step to the first love of Thomas' life... or is it?

Thomas Barrow had just turned sixteen, and was the spitting image of his father.

            Though he was still working off the humiliation of the ‘incident’ (and the loss of a good customer) a few months earlier, he was well on his way to repentance, and he worked longer and harder than ever. He’d grown a lot, too- as his work load had increased he’d also stocked up a bit- though his family was full of tall, strong men, so no surprises there. Now he looked down on all his peers, and people assumed he was older than he was- and treated him as such. This included his father, who started to take a more isolated approach to grooming him into the clock business. He tried to teach him to shoot (with limited success- Thomas didn’t like the noise of the guns and couldn’t hit a painted target to save his life), taught him business, how to gain a customer’s trust, and a few other ‘life lessons’ besides.

            One consequence of so much one-on-one time with a resentful father was the development of fierce ambition. He _had_ to be good enough, had to become better than everyone else, to prove he hadn’t thrown away the one good opportunity he’d ever have. Where before he had held his silence there now developed a hard outer shell that demanded expression, and people who had found Thomas amiable now crossed the street in his path.

            This nastiness didn’t just come from his father, though; Thomas was becoming acutely aware that every time someone cursed any ‘sod’ behind their back, or laughed at a man with business in Cleveland Street, or told their friend to stop being ‘such a pansy’, they were talking about him. So if he inverted himself enough maybe no one would look too closely. He retreated into stories, spent every penny he begged stole or earnt in used bookstalls- pretended he was a Prince or a Hero or _anything_ honourable into the night, dreaming that the fictions would somehow become his reality.

            His father didn’t notice the change, or didn’t care to- only his sister tried to reach him; sincerely, and often, she’d enquire gently how he was, how work was, how was he feeling, was there anything he wanted to talk about- and always wound up with the door slammed in her face. So she waited.

 

She waited until midnight, after a long day, hovering outside Thomas’ door until she was sure she could hear quiet sobs, and tiptoed into the room. The forceful energy Thomas carried in the day was gone; he lay quite still, curled up on his bed, shoulders twitching. He didn’t show that he’d registered his sister’s entrance until her hand was on his shoulder and he didn’t shake it off. She didn’t speak, and he put his hand over hers, squeezing tightly.

            “There’s somethin’ wrong w’me.” Still, she didn’t speak. “And if I tell you what it is, you’ll hate me.”

            “I wouldn’t ever _hate_ you, Tom. I wouldn’t b’able to.” She moved closer to her brother, cradling his shoulders. “You’re my brother and I love you n’matter what you’ve done.”

            “It’s not what I’ve _done_ , it’s what I _am_. I’m _wrong_ , I’m…” Thomas choked off.

            “Hate the sin, love the sinner, isn’t that what mother always says?”

            Thomas turned and buried his face in his sister’s shoulder, muttering something too quiet to hear.

            “What?”

            “I’m a- ’m a hmsxl.”

            “You’re a what?”

            “I’m a homosexual.”

            “Oh Tom, as if I’d care about that.” She stroked Thomas’ forehead as she had when he’d been much, much smaller, and only let Thomas get half way to saying something else before adding, “what’s ‘omosexual?”

            Thomas huffed and pulled away, folding his arms. “It means I don’t like girls. I like men.”

            “’Like’ as in…?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh. Oh, I see.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

            Thomas cleared his throat. “Well? It’s illegal. And I’m goin’ to Hell.”

            “If ’m honest, Tom… I didn’t know that was… was possible- and I don’t much want t’think about who you bed... ‘ow do you _know_ you’re… anyway, I wouldn’t be in an ‘urry to tell dad.”

            “No, I won’t. I’ll get engaged t’some simple girl and wait until he’s dead t’break it off.”

            “Tom! You’ll do nothing like it to some poor girl- you’ve never wanted to keep to father’s fancies anyway so…” she suddenly deflated. “If it’s illegal, what’re you gonna do?”

            “Do about…?”

            “Not _that_. _That_ you oughtn’t to be doing until yer married, anyway… and how _you_ \- no- I meant- who are you goin’ to care for, and who’s goin’ to take care of you… you can’t live in the shadows forever.”

            “I’ve got you. I don’t need anyone else and ‘oo knows- maybe the laws'll change some day.” Thomas shrugged. “Th’only person I need to care about is m’self.”

            “Tom, please don’t cut yourself off from anythin’ for a... _boy_ ’s choice. Don’t close yourself to girls- ‘oo knows, maybe you’re just not grown up yet.” Thomas huffed, but she continued regardless, “all I know is- you need someone to _care_ for- an’ to ‘ave romance with- and even if… it’s better than nothin’. You can’t let what you want to… to… um. _Lie with_ make your mind up, it’s jus’… well it’s jus’ what young men are…I don’t see ‘ow two grown men can _love_ each other- I mean… men are so unemotional an’ stubborn, it wouldn't work.” She stifled a laugh.

            “You’re probably right.”

            “Try not to worry about it- yer still very young. An’, it could change…” She softened and patted Thomas’ shoulder. “Now you’ve told someone d'you feel better? ‘olding something like that in your chest can’t’ve done you any good.”

            “Well, so long as someone knows and doesn’t hate me… everyone seems to hate me before they’ve met me ‘n’-”

            “They don’t ‘ate _you_. They don’understand what it is- I mean, what you are. I… only you know yourself- they can’t an’ you can’t let ‘em make you feel guilty.” She paused and with restraint added, “Jus’ please take care of y'self.” She pulled her brother close again and Thomas briefly hugged her back.

            “’m not going anywhere, am I? You’ll always be ‘ere to keep an eye on me." Thomas kissed his sister on the cheek and muttered a few more assurances and ‘no I will _not_ tell you that- read a book’ before his sister left the room, with a small seed of hope planted in Thomas’ chest.

 

…

 

White Lilies. Sunshine. Thomas’ best black jacket. His father’s only evening jacket, smarter than Thomas had ever seen it. _Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body_ …

 

His father’s heart never left the graveside.

…

           

After the funeral, life became busier than ever. Thomas had to pick up the slack of his father’s grief and his sister had to pick up the slack of cooking and cleaning: her only inheritance.

            Thomas’s father started drinking the same way men who spent their days boiled in a public house did- and flashes of his anger started to appear more often, too. It could be sparked by any little thing: spill a glass of milk and he wound into such a rage that Thomas had to take his sister and leave the house for a few hours, chased down the street by a madman. Other times Thomas would shove her into the bathroom and bear the brunt of it- no more formal beltings; this was fists and shouting and Thomas was terrified.

            Almost worse were the times when his father wasn’t angry, but sat at the kitchen table staring at his glass, speaking too softly to hear. Thomas tried to move him, help him get upstairs to his bed at least, but he grew sick of hearing how like his mother’s eyes his own were.

 

His father would collar Thomas and lock him in a room with him for hours, making him practice cleaning, loading and unloading shotguns until his finger’s ached- muttering and stumbling about the room, telling Thomas he was teaching him to be a ‘real’ man. Thomas aimed a few shots at sparrows in the green behind the house, but he still wasn’t much good at it. With a few weeks under his belt he could hit a tin can at the other end of the garden three times out of five. But that was it.

            He started creeping away in the evenings- his sister went to Phyllis’ house, at the risk of her own reputation (the girl was trouble, in Thomas’ opinion), while he headed to the public house up the road, and sat in the corner watching the card games, until he’d picked up enough tricks to try a hand himself. He found a natural luck at pontoon, and soon the older men welcomed him to their circles- he was just young enough they didn’t expect money bets, but were happy to be entertained by the amusing young man before them. Still, Thomas felt at odds without anyone his own age to talk to, not quite understanding all of the ‘ey ey’ and elbow nudging that went on.

 

In the meantime, the one good thing that happened was the milk boy. Thomas hadn’t a clue what his name was- had only been surprised when he had answered the door to the lad in nothing but a shirt and slacks, and the boy had practically dribbled on him. Now every other day he had a smiling face (albeit not a very handsome one, but flattery was flattery), eyeing him up.

            “I think y’get more gorgeous every day I see you, Mister Barrow.”

            “Keep talkin’ like that, they’ll lock you up.” He smiled as he took the glass bottles, allowing a singular touch of their hands.

            “Why? I won’t tell if you won’t.”

 

One day Thomas had to hiss at him, after a particularly loud and crude remark about his buttocks was made through the closed door.

            “’ow can you be so open, talkin’ like that?!” He looked around to make sure there hadn’t been anyone in earshot.

            “Well there’s nothin’ t’be ashamed of, is there? Can’t help ‘ow we are an’ all that.”

            “But what if someone hears you-?”

            “Let ‘em! You’ll see- before we know it the laws'll be changed and we’ll be able to get married to each other an’ everythin’- same as the regular folk.”

            Thomas shook his head. “You’re one of those ‘socialists’, aren’t you?”

            “Yes, but ’m not mad. I’d never be so open if you wasn’t one’of’us anyways.”

            Thomas frowned. “I’m not- well, ’m not like _you,_ at any rate.”

            “Not yet- you’ll see. It’s easier than hatin’ y’self for somethin’ you can’t ‘elp.” He tipped his cap and with another toothy grin waltzed to the next house. Thomas shook his head and shut the door.

 

Slowly, though, he learnt from the tufty ginger milk boy; at least to hold his head a little higher. How _could_ he help what he was? If he could change, he would- and he’d prayed on his knees for weeks with no answer; if God wanted him to stop then he ought to send a sign- and if some archaic text was his ‘proof’… he’d never been a particularly faithful man of God, anyway. So Thomas learnt; had a smile on his face more often than not, looked forward to his scandalous morning meetings, and even dared let the revolutionist talk to him about socialism, and the underground groups of men like him that were about- even in his little town!

            “Well, we’re everywhere, y’see. That’s what they don’t want us t’know- if no one speaks out then we think we’re alone an’ _then_ they’ve got us. But if we all openly admitted it- though we’re not there yet- ‘alf the country would be standin’ and talkin’... and you can’t put half the country in the pen!”

            “But who’s ‘they’?”

            “The Government, the Priests, the Rabbis- all of ‘em.” The boy shook his head, a rare serious expression on it. “One day, we’ll make ‘em all pay for it.” He looked up. “You should come to one of our meetings- I think you’d like it.”

            “No- not yet, at least- couldn’t risk bein’ seen; people in town know me and me dad- he’d hear about it all too quick.”

            “The Revolution won’t wait for yer, you know.” The boy placed his hand over Thomas’ and the moment lengthened. Thomas was acutely aware of the thumb stroking the back of his hand and the innocent expression matching it. But then the other set of blue eyes glanced away from him, and jerked the hand back. The milk boy cleared his throat loudly, tipped his cap, and scrambled backwards in a way Thomas hadn’t seen before. He shut the door and turned around to-

            “You’ve got th’milk, I see.”   

            The faint pink drained from Thomas' cheeks and he snatched his hand behind his back, clearing his throat. _H_ _e must have seen everythin’._ He tried to form a sentence.

            “Uh- yes. I ‘ave.”

            “Good. Pass it ‘ere then.”

            Thomas presented his father with the bottle, half expecting to be caught with a stray fist to his cheek, but unharmed, went to put the other bottle in the kitchen. His heart was beating double.

            _Had ‘e seen? He must have- ‘ow long ‘ad he been standin’ there? Why didn’t he say anythin’?_ Thomas arranged things as quickly as he could and all but sprinted to the shop to start the day’s errands. Maybe he’d gotten away lucky- his father hadn’t seen anything after all...

 

The sting came a few days later; Thomas (cautiously) opened the door to see an unimpressive middle-aged man putting the milk outside the door.

            “Oh- are you- are you th’new milkman?”

            “Aye. Swapped rotas with the young ‘un- somethin’ about a complaint.” He tipped his cap and strolled down the road.

            Thomas swallowed.

 

The next step came at dinner the next night- Thomas had found the courage to occasionally move his eyes up from his plate and talk briefly to his sister, as she watched with furrowed brow the newspaper her father was hiding behind, and the concerned way her brother was looking at him. She gave Thomas a look.

            _What did you do?_

Thomas shrugged. _Nothing_.

            She arched an eyebrow. _Yeah. Right._

Thomas shrugged again and raised his eyebrows. _Honest- I didn’t._ A pointed look. _Dunno what’s up with him_.

            She stayed silent and carried on eating.

            “So, Tom.” Mr Barrow Senior broke the silence, and Thomas nearly dropped his fork. He recovered well.

            “Yes, Sir?”

            “D’you remember Mr Fickerwitch?”

            “Yes.” Thomas chewed thoughtfully, “’e wanted that old grandfather clock, didn’t ‘e?”

            “That’s right. I ‘ear his daughter often comes in the shop.”

            “Oh.” Thomas, though still confused, felt his gnawing fear retreat a little. “She does, Sir- we’ve been introduced; always in on a Tuesday- with ‘er grandma.” He took a mouthful of food. “She never buys anythin’, don’t think she can afford it, but she always asks ‘bout things, looks around ‘n’ that.”

            “Good. Well Mr Fickerwitch told me that she’s rather keen on yer- I said I’d pass on not only ‘is blessing but ‘is advice you hurry up and notice ‘er before she wastes away of a broken ‘eart.”

            “Oh.” Something else crawled into Thomas' throat and churned his stomach. “I see.”

            “I can give you some money for flowers or somethin’- get her somethin’ nice- it’s about time you started looking for a nice girl to keep yer ‘ead straight.”

            Thomas carefully avoided his sister’s eye and cleared his throat. “Oh, that’s alright- uhm- I’d like to… well I think I’d rather-”

            “Tom.”

            “Yes, sir?”

            “You will take this girl out, won’t you? It’d be unfair to not at least give ‘er a _try_.” The look said all it needed to. _I know. Don’t make a fuss, and prove me wrong._

            “Yes. Sir.” He folded his cutlery on his plate, eyes downwards, “Right now I’m feelin’ tired, I think I’ll go to bed.” He washed his things up quickly and trooped upstairs, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair.

 

He sat on his bed, frozen. Tears threatened to fall into Thomas' lap, because he couldn’t bear to move his hands to his eyes. His father thought he was a freak- _he knew_ \- and so he should. Hate clawed at his insides. _How dare he! Doesn’t like somethin’ so he’s just gonna ignore it- just try t’think it away but I can’t. It’s not fair. I can’t ‘elp what I am- ‘m not even sure I am a-_

            The contents of his bedside table flew across the room and smashed against the wall. Thomas looked to his door. His father did not come bursting through, as he usually would have… _bloody coward_. So, Thomas left.

            Went out into the light rain and the dark with his tweed coat on- just walked. Didn’t know where, didn’t much care either, he just walked down familiar streets with his coat collar turned up, and ignored the leers and drunken calls and pleads from the scattered few that were his company, trying to find a solution to a problem that couldn’t be fixed.

            He figured he could:

            a.)  _Stop being the way that you are- unlikely_ \- but was it possible? _Revisit this later._

 _b.) Make your father understand-_ Thomas snorted and scribbled the option out.

 _c.) Run away with the milk boy._ If he could find him.

 _d.) Keep it out of sight- wait until you can leave._ He was still young; there was no reason to rush into the life of the criminal. This seemed the best option.

 

He stopped at a corner shop on the way back, watching a drunk stumbling home with a cigarette between his lips, and walked smartly inside,

            “One pack Players Navy Cut.” He slid the loose change he had over the counter, and was pleasantly surprised by how much of it was returned.

 

Outside he put one to his lips, tutted in frustration, went back in to buy a matchbook, and came out again to light it. Sitting on a park bench, he realised he wasn’t very good at smoking. He took such a deep lungful that he coughed heartily, cleared his throat, walked half way down the street in his embarrassment, and was still breathing smoke out when he rounded the corner.

 

He was calmer, now the fifteen minutes of unrestrained passion that any tantrum causes had passed, and he trod lightly to his room, changed and cleaned himself, and lay on his bed with a more determined approach to his life at home. _It must be worth a try_ , at least.


	3. Lilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Th first love of Thomas' life is more trouble than she's worth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been fire so this is late, but fear not! I have not forgotten!

Next Tuesday the bell above the door rang as a young girl came in, the same warm smile on her face, immediately directed at the finer pieces of Thomas’ father’s work on display by the door, and then at Thomas- a face Thomas had come to recognise, but never with so much trepidation. Her elderly grandmother stood far enough away that Thomas could approach if he wanted, but not far enough that she wouldn’t hear what he said. Thomas figured that nothing about this was up to him, anyway.

            “You again?” he returned Miss Fickerwitch’s smile, “we don’t get a shop’s worth o’clocks in every week y’know.”

            “I know. I jus’ like to look at ‘em all… I am savin’ up to buy somethin’-” she hurried on, “not that I mean’to waste your time with just comin’ in and lookin’ every week…”

            “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Thomas walked out from behind the counter and came to stand by the girl’s side, peering over her shoulder and feigning interest in the display she was looking at. “Besides, I suspect you’re not ‘ere just to look at pocket watches an’ clocks ‘n that, anyway.” He saw the youthful pink hue rise in her cheeks and wondered why it was so easy to flirt with girls.

            “Mister Barrow, _what_ d’you mean?” She turned to him.

            “Only that you might enjoy _my_ company ‘ere, as well.” Now that he thought about it- there _had_ been signs: eager initiations of conversation, a little too much eye contact… They were standing too close, but she wasn’t moving.

            She turned back to the display, trying to hide her smile, “is this ‘un yours?” She was pointing at a small silver pocket watch with admiral blue hands and a clear face on the back so you could see sunlight shine through the clockwork if you held it to the light.

            “You’ve got a good eye, miss- that’s one of the first Mr Barrow Senior would let me put on display.”

            “It’s very pretty.”

            “Thank you.”

            The silence lengthened.

            “I oughta -”

            “Miss Fickerwitch- please don’t think me forward,” _manners maketh man_ , “but I can’t ‘elp but wonder if you mightn’t like to accompany me to… well, somewhere, sometime?”

            “Are you invitin’ me out with your friends, then?” She was looking a little too closely at Thomas’ face. So was her grandmother. Thomas found that, oddly, he didn’t mind the attention.

            “I thought we’d go out, jus’ us.”

            “Just us _together_?”

            “If you want.”

            “I do.” She tucked a lose strand of hair behind her ear, “I would like that very much, Mister Barrow-”

            “Tom.”

            “Tom. Alright, then you must call me Lilly.”

            “Alright, Lilly.” He smiled directly at her and noted the colour coming to her cheeks again. “What would you like t’do?”

            “Shouldn’t that be up to you? I’ll tell me dad tonight and… well, come to my house, at three o’clock Friday, that’s your next day off isn’t it? An’ surprise me.”

            “I think I can manage that.” He began to offer her his hand but she leant up on tiptoe, _he **had** gotten taller, _ and kissed him on the cheek before murmuring a small ‘goodbye’, not taking her eyes off him as she left the shop. Her grandmother gave him a significant look, but they hadn’t been introduced so Thomas was safe. Regardless, he felt a tightening in his stomach.

 

            “’Ow is the young lady Fickerwitch?”

            “She’s well.” Thomas took another bite of his sister’s stew. “I’ve invited ‘er out this Friday. She seems keen.”

            “Very good, I’m glad to ‘ear it, aren’t you glad to ‘ear that,” Thomas' father directed at his daughter,

            “Yes I’m- very pleased for you, Tom. I ‘ope you two enjoy yourselves.” She said to her plate.

            “But not too much, eh?” Mr Barrow Senior chuckled, and Thomas tried not to flush completely red. “Where are you taking ‘er, then?”

            “’m... not sure, yet. Where do girls like to be taken out?” He looked to his sister.

            “Well, I don’t know. Somewhere fancy, I guess. You can ‘ardly go to a public house with her grandmother there with you.”

            “I’ve talked to ‘er father about that-” Mr Barrow started, “’e knows Mr Gillesby, the landlord at _The Ram_ , and ‘e’s offered to keep an eye on you both- make it a little more private without it bein’ improper.”

            “Oh. Thank you, Sir.” Thomas cleared his throat.

            “You see, Tom, I’m rather keen for this to _work out_ for you. It’d be nice to know that when I’m gone I’m leaving somethin’ stable behind in you two- and you’re not _that_ young- people in our walk of life like to be nice and settled by twenty somethin’, so it’d be nice to start thinkin’ about that fer you. What with you needin’ to take care of your spinster sister here.” He tried, and failed, to brighten the mood.

            She glanced coyly to Thomas and back to her father. “I’ll ‘ave you know that I may be well on my way.”

            Thomas spoke before his father could turn the conversation back, “Who is this suitor then? Never heard ‘bout ‘im before…”

            “’is name is Luke Tucket- ‘e works at the grocery store, and I see ‘im most days, so we’ve come to know each other.”

            “Well, well!” His father looked back to Thomas, “See, son, if you’re not careful your sister will be married and takin’ care of _you_.” Thomas and his father let out equally embarrassed laughs.

            “And anyway, he’s comin’ over for dinner next week and I thought I ought to mention it- I think ‘e plans to propose soon.”

            “And what are you going to say?”

            “Yes, I suppose. ‘e’s a good man, and I can’t see any better options coming my way. I think if you can find someone you think is at least _agreeable_ and ‘oo you can imagine spendin’ a good life with-” this was directed firmly at Thomas, “-then you can worry about the rest afterwards.”

            Thomas ran a hand through his hair, adjusting deftly, and nodded.

 

Conversations strayed on little else bar Lilly and Luke for the rest of the week. Within a day Thomas decided he wasn’t going to take Lilly out after all, and break it off- then that he was going to get it over with and propose, inversion be damned- and then back to a vain hope that maybe he’d wind up liking this girl after all. He wasn’t disgusted by her, and he didn’t mind their conversations at all- perhaps that was the beginning of love…

            “Tom it doesn’t matter if you don’t _love_ her- that comes later.” His sister confided when they were out back, chopping wood and doing washing.

            “Does it?”

            “Yes - this isn’t a novel; love doesn’t jus’ _happen_.”

            “Right. Can we talk about somethin’ else? I’m tired of goin’ over a few sentences that barely meant anythin’ again and again.” Thomas sighed.

            “You’re nervous- that’s good. It means you care.”

            “Do I?”

            “ _Yes_ , Tom. You do. Don’t worry- it’ll work out, I promise.”

            Thomas cleared his throat. “Anyway what’s this I hear about that friend of yours- she’s been gettin’ in a spot of trouble again, last I heard…”

 

 _The Ram_ was crowded, but not uncomfortably so. With a smile Thomas led Lilly to a seat by the window, plenty visible, and asked what she’d like to drink.

            “Some lemonade, if they’ve got any.”

            “Of course.”

            He didn’t fancy drinking if he’d be the only one, and gave the landlord a friendly nod when he winked at him and muttered, ‘she’s a pretty thing, ain’t she’ before he took back the two fizzing drinks.

 

Conversation was slow at first: Thomas gently enquiring about what Lilly did during the day, how her father was, and her sisters too (the eldest already married and the middle soon to be), and what else was he supposed to ask? She returned the questions and seemed genuinely interested in his responses, but it wasn’t until they spoke of London the spark was lit.

            “’ave you ever been? I only went down once, straight through it. It looked wonderful.”

            “Yes- I worked down there for a few months, near a year ago now.”

            “What was it like? Where did’yer work? What did’yer do?” Her eyes were shining

            “I helped at a newspaper printers- it was… interestin’. I loved it, really, I did.”

            “I’d love to live there when I’m married- everything seems so much bigger and more excitin’.”

            A twitch in Thomas’ stomach. “Yes- I think that’s where I’d like to end up, too.” She smiled again in a way he’d never seen a girl smile at _him_. And he didn’t mind- in fact, he returned the smile, warmly.

 

From then on, Lilly and Thomas saw much of each other, besides her weekly visits to his shop. They would see each other at Church, go for walks in the park together - it was like courting a lady. And what was strange was that Thomas wasn’t bothered by it. He didn’t mind talking to her, in fact even though their worlds were fairly different, they found plenty to talk about. Books, especially (turns out that was all girls were _allowed_  to do for fun, anyway) they’d swap their favourites- hers usually sappy romances that Thomas didn’t altogether hate- his tales of great bravery and impossible tasks. He liked how people looked at him whenever she put his arm through his, and he liked how much she liked him. Was this love? He just… well. It was difficult- needless to say, they’d never been completely alone together, but even when she dared him to kiss her goodnight one evening, when she’d come to the door after a theatre-trip, and there were only the streetlamps to see, he had he felt… nothing. No disgust or hatred- it was pleasant, but it wasn’t something he _wanted_. The way he’d kissed Victor- Lilly never put those feelings into his stomach.

            For a while, Thomas did a good job of ignoring it- pretending he was happy with her, because he was happy, and he _did_ like her, so he ignored the growing sense of _wrong_ \- she was a good friend to him. Not a close one, but a good one.

 

            “You know, Tom. You’re not like any boy I know.”

            “Aren’t I?” Thomas squared his shoulders.

            “No- I’ve never heard a boy talk about anything besides sports or drinks, and I’ve never met one ‘oo knows how to talk t’girls. You talk about the same things I do.”

            “That’s probably why we get along, then.”

            “You speak softer too.”

            Victor had had his influences. “Well that’s jus’ when I’m being polite- I had lessons ‘n’ that while I was in London.”

            “I like it- it makes me feel like a lady being _courted_.”

            “Well ‘n that case, _Madam._ ” He slipped back into his clipped constantans, and spoke loud enough for those around him to hear, “would you care to accompany me to the the-et- _ar_ this fine eve?”

            “ _Lord_ Barrow that sounds wonderful.”

 

It started slowly- almost so Thomas wasn’t aware of it- his father checking up on his relationship with ‘Miss Fickerwitch’ and how was it progressing, and telling him if they were ‘ever to quarrel’ to make sure he spoke to his father ‘before anythin’ _rash_ ‘appens’. That was normal; a father should be keen when a son manages to find a nice girl above his station, but there was…. _Something_. Under the surface of it all. A beat under every check-up and question about upcoming prenuptials and ‘y’know it’s very easy for me to talk to her old man, sort it all out’- _don’t be a freak, make this work, I’m don’t want to have to deal with what could happen otherwise._ His father wouldn’t sleep happily until he saw his only son comfortably married.

            Equally slowly a feeling started to grow in Thomas’ chest- something he _couldn’t_ ignore. The more his father asked after Lilly, the more Thomas was repulsed by her. It wasn’t Lilly’s fault, of course, but he started to feel he was betraying himself somehow- he was being cowardly in some way. This was equally matched by a desperation that if he waited long enough he’d see Lilly in the way other men did.

            “Y’know, Tom, I’m very proud of yer.”

            Thomas cleared his throat and tried not to look too uncomfortable, focusing on setting the places for dinner. “Yes. Thank you, dad.”

            “I mean it, Tom. What you’ve done- what you…. Well you ‘ad me worried an’ ’m so _proud_ of the man you’ve become.” Thomas’ hands stilled and Mr Barrow offered him his hand. Awkwardly Thomas took it and his father’s shake was firm.

            “Now let’s finish getting things set, eh?”

            Thomas nodded. All through dinner, as his sister wittered about how Phyllis was coming over that Friday, and how they’d seen so little of each other recently and… it all washed over his head as he ignored the feelings of sickness in his stomach.

 

Perhaps he _was_ ill- sometimes his heart thudded and he’d get shaky, sometimes he seemed to be unbearably hot and then he shivered. He felt queasy, often had headaches… what was wrong with him? Whenever he caught a glimpse of himself in a looking glass he seemed the same old Thomas he’d always been. Taller, stockier than he remembered being, or sometimes felt, but he was glad, in a way. There was nothing… _pansy_ about him to look at. And although he’d occasionally speak a little lower if he were on the streets, or square his shoulders, he was _tall_ and the shadow of the body he was growing into was obvious to anyone that looked at him. And _yet_ , Thomas squinted, _I hardly look threatenin’_. _Not with these lips_. He touched his hand to his mouth, lips seeming so red and _soft_ , so unmanly- his face still looked so young, like he’d not be able to harm a fly if he tried. So he schooled his expression into a near permanent-scowl. That wasn’t difficult- his literacy had left him stuck a big fish in a small pond, and having to repeat or explain most of the things he said made disdain an easy affectation. _How can they be so thick? Why don’t they just pick up a book_? He sighed at his reflection. Something just wasn’t _quite_ right. Bright blue eyes, messy black hair, smart brown suit, but something was… _off_ …

            He gave up on whatever it was and hurried out the door, determination curling his fists.

 

And then, suddenly Thomas realised he was about to be engaged to be married. Just as his father had once joked, _it was usually the woman who decides when a man’s to be married an’ all_ , suddenly Lilly was dropping hints. Or rather, discussing her married life a lot more openly, and asking what Thomas _thought_ of her ideas. Thomas felt quite ridiculous: flushing, looking away, acting like a wooed maid rather than the other way round, and fumbled for the right thing to say. Lilly carried on, regardless- or perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing.

            “I think the weddin’ I would want would be sort of quiet, jus’ a small celebration at the office, the families there of course, but simple- jus’ Sunday bests, I think- no need to waste good money onna new dress an’-”

            “Miss Fickerwitch.”

            “Yes Mister Barrow?” So innocent. How coy.         

            “I think that you’re anglin’ for me to ask you a certain question.”

            She looked away, a small smile on her face. That was a _yes_ then. “Mister _Barrow_ ….”

            “Well, alright. D’you wanna then?” She turned back to him, and he let her get half way to looking offended before he laughed, heart suddenly hammering even though there was no reason for it- he didn’t even _want_ th- he didn’t let himself finish the thought but threw his arms up in surrender as her gaze narrowed, “Alright, alright I’ll ask you properly then.” He got to his knee, feeling every eye in the park watching them, not least Lilly’s elusive grandmother sitting on the nearest bench, and clasped Lilly's hands. They were both a proper picture; both pairs of hands slightly clammy and both faces flushed. Thomas took a breath, considering the life he was signing up to, swallowed, and added another moment until they were both quite awkward with anticipation.

            “Miss Fickerwitch.”

            “Yes.” She said immediately.

            “I haven’t even asked you yet.”

            They both laughed nervously.

            “Right. Miss Fickerwitch. Would y’do me the honour of-”

            “Yes!” She couldn’t help herself and pulled Thomas to his feet, standing with him, squeezing his hands tightly. Her eyes were bright, looking for all the world like she wanted to pull him close and have her way with him on the spot. There was light applause from the spectators; Thomas couldn’t bear to look at them, he was so shocked at the sudden feeling of dread that clamped his stomach down. He smiled and hoped his nerves would be understood, were they received.

            “Miss Fickerwitch I like you very much.” He settled, feeling the need to say _something_ as they walked back towards her home, now linked arm in arm.

            She laughed, and looked at him curiously. “I guess you are jus’ like other men after all- none of you can talk about _feelings_.” She glanced behind her quickly and lowered her voice just enough that the conversation was their own, and Thomas leaned in to hear, “I _love_ you, Tom, I’ve never met any man like you, and I jus’ _know_ we’ll be one of those couples who get to live _happily ever after_.”

            Thomas wanted to laugh, laugh until he couldn’t make noise anymore, but instead he smiled and nodded, “An’ I feel the same for you, too, Lilly.”

 

When his father heard the news, he shook Thomas’ hand firmly, and even put a hand on his shoulder, so moved was he. His sister embraced him tightly; spinning him around the kitchen and squealing with glee. Thomas was beyond bewildered. Suddenly _everyone_ he passed seemed to know, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy all the smiles on everyone’s faces as they saw him: the happy fiancé. And he was happy, too. Of all the women in the world- he was glad he had found Lilly; someone he could trust so intimately and someone who he did _love_ , (in his own way) but…

            Thomas shook the feeling off and hurried down to the door, now a little tall to be described as ‘scampering’. Ever since his proposal the conventions hadn’t so much relaxed as- well, he barely saw Lilly. Where before they’d spent a few days a week in another’s company now he was lucky to see her _once_. On the one hand it stopped him listing all the things he wasn’t attracted to about her, and on the other it left him stewing in his own feelings- especially late at night when he had naught but his own company and his memories carrying him to thinking too hard about certain things, so that he wound up- well, anyway. He was conflicted.

 

Now he sat, in the Fickerwitch room- a lounge and a dining room at once- which had become so familiar to him, and held Lilly’s hands as they cherished the brief minute alone putting Lilly’s cousins to bed, who were currently visiting for the wedding, had brought.

            “Two weeks, Tom. Can you _imagine_?” She looked at him with that same look he still hadn’t quite learnt to hate and Thomas smiled back at her, drawing in the look in her eyes, so hopeful. She was so kind… perhaps she wouldn’t mind-

            Her hand moved to his knee. Thomas deliberately kept still and Lilly kept a coy smile on her face. Suddenly Thomas’ heart was beating double but not in a good way. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, so small and soft in his own and flit his eyes back up to her face. He felt an exciting curiosity in the abstract of intimacy with Lilly- but that was banished the moment her hand was on him.

            “I know it’s not for a lady to say.” She whispered, and Thomas was terrified that they’d be caught, somehow. “But I think th’thing I’m _most_ lookin’ forward to about my marriage- is my wedding _night_.” She let the warmth of her hand rest on Thomas’ knee, Thomas painfully aware of its presence- was he supposed to know how to…? Did she know? Abruptly she pulled back to a more acceptable position and Thomas swallowed thickly.

            “Um. Yeah- I…” His voice was rough; she was clearly amused he didn’t know what to say. There was nothing _appropriate_ he could say, really. So he let himself blush, nodded his head and cleared his throat, getting to his feet to make his excuses.

            “I haven’t embarrassed you, ‘ave I?”

            “Not at all, I jus’ don’t have a _gentlemanly_ response to such suggestions,” he leant in and lowered his voice, “an if you plan on remainin’ virtuous _until_ your wedding night, you’d better be careful sayin’ those sort of things to a young fellow.” He winked, and felt satisfaction in her blush. “Who knows what could ‘appen?”

            He bid adieu to Lilly’s parents and Lilly insisted on walking him to the door, standing outside a moment with the door only slightly ajar.

            “Tom- kiss me.”

            That left no room for debate. Thomas bent his head and did so. _It’s not intolerable_ , he thought as he pressed his lips to hers, _it’s alright, really_. She didn’t give up so easily, and brought her hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer and he clumsily fumbled for her waist before she pulled back, eyes wide, hand pressed to the top of her chest, breathless, and she gave him another wide-eyed look before she slipped back through the door.

 

Thomas kicked pebbles all the way home, his hands dug deep into his pockets. To others he’d appear melancholy; perhaps they’d assume he’d been rebuffed- the thought made him want to laugh. _If only_.

            _The thing I’m most looking forward to about my marriage… is my wedding **night**._

            The words went round and round and round in his head. He fumbled for a cigarette, and lit it, biting the filter between his teeth and growling softly. _Why couldn’t he just force it? All other blokes can do it, even bloody **Victor** could do it, or he said he could convincingly enough anyway..._

His sour mood did not improve on the walk home, his mind fogged by anger at his inability to give Lilly what she wanted, and the helplessness of the fact that he _couldn’t_ help it. Disgust curled in his stomach and he tried not to slam the door behind him.

            “Tom?” his father called from the kitchen–com-dining room.

            “It’s me.”

            “Come in ‘ere a second.”

            Thomas followed his father’s voice.

            “Sit down ‘ere.”

            “Is everythin’ alright?”

            “Yes, everythin’s fine Tom. Just fine. I jus’ thought, what with you gettin’ married so soon, you might like to know about the, uh… certain _facts of life_ , before you get there. As it were.”

            Thomas shifted. “Right. Um. I think I’m…”

            “Now look son, I won’t be coy with you-”

            “No, really, there’s no need t’-”

            “But when it comes down to the bare bones of it, every man knows what ‘e’s doing.”

            Thomas cleared his throat and pinched the fabric of his trousers, eyes on his hands.

            “Now, listen up, son. Every father ought to give his son a talk before th’ big night, and it’s your turn. The most fiddly bit’ll be with ‘er corset, they’re a bugger to get off, but you can always have it re-laced, so don’t worry about just cuttin’ it lose- I know what a man’s like when the blood’s up.” Here he paused to chuckle and Thomas went a vague crimson colour.

            “When you’ve got ‘er naked- you take the biggest thing you’ve got, and stick it in the hairiest bit she’s got- you understand my meaning?” Thomas nodded tersely, gritting his teeth.

            “The first time is always the most difficult, and she’s gonna be a bit… uneasy at first- in fact there’ll probably be a bit of blood- well.” He laughed, “there _should_ be, anyway. But to make it easier- if y’like you can get some spit on yer fingers and-”

            “Uh yes, dad, I get it.” The rose tint to Thomas’ blushes had faded and he was now white as a sheet.      

            “What’s th’matter with you, then? I know it’s no fun talkin’ to your old dad about but it’s nothin’ to be _scared_ of.”

            “’m not scared. Just tired. And- er- well-informed.” His eyes remained glued to the floor. “There were whispers about it on the playground an’… g’night, dad.” He rose to leave; his father shrugged, sighed, and returned to his bottle.

 

Thomas walked up the stairs numbly and sat quietly on his bed. He felt sick, but worse than that there was just a… a _wall_ inside him, I solid feeling of _I can’t_. He was calmly and very suddenly aware that he couldn’t bed Lilly- he wasn’t _able_ to.

            “Ok.” He muttered to himself, flexing his hands and trying to calm his breath, “So you can’t- _love_ her. That’s alright. But you _care_ for her, and she cares for you, and she’ll… understand. Yes- she’ll understand and she’ll love you anyway because she is _in love_ with you and you can’t… and she’ll understand that. She’s got to- you can’t- you can’t help th’way you are.”

            He got dressed for bed, still muttering to himself, turned off his lamp and tried to force his racing mind to sleep. For hours he tossed and turned, sighing and throwing his pillow over his head when dawn’s light was about to signal another day had started without him.

 

A few hours passed and his eyes cracked open, feeling slightly warm and dry. He washed himself up, dressed, and fled his house before he’d have to explain his way out of work- it would just have to wait. He hailed a hansom only to realise he’d left his _stupid bloody money_ on his bedside table and had to withstand a stream of expletives as the driver pulled away.

 

As the sun rose on his long walk to the other part of town, he removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves up- no one would be around to see him anyway- and as he finally reached the front door, heat seeping through his shirt, he wiped his forehead and ran a hand through his hair. He realised it was still only 6:10am (he hadn’t forgotten to wind his watch in his mad escape, then). He put his hand on his hip, turned to look about the deserted street and contemplated what to do. He’d have to wait.

            Sitting on the doorstep he itched his chin and figured a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Another new chore he’d added to his morning routine as of late- though he was growing slightly concerned at the spread of hair starting over his torso, unsure if he was supposed to shave that, too. He felt himself nodding off and jumped to his feet, nervous energy leaving one hand twitching, and leading the other to knock firmly on the door. _What the hell was he doing here he was going to get himself-_

The door opened to Lilly’s father, looking bleary.

            “Ah… Tom. What brings you ‘ere?”

            “Can I talk to Lilly please, Sir?”

            “At this hour?” He squinted at Tom. “Anythin’ th’matter?”

            “No- um- no sir, I just… It’s important and I… well, could I, please?” Thomas’ gut was telling him to run away.           

            “Certainly, sure y’can. You’ll ‘ave to wait, she’s not down yet…” He scratched his stubble, “Well, come in, y’can wait in the kitchen for ‘er.”

            “Thank you, Sir. Thank you very much.” Thomas followed the father into the house and sat, declining the offer of tea as the older man excused himself to his morning tasks.

 

When Lilly came down, dressed and prepared as if she’d been awake for hours, she found Thomas pacing the length of the kitchen, smoke training from his lips, jacket folded over the nearest chair. As she stepped forward he whirled round, stubbed his cigarette manically and pulled on his jacket.

            “Lilly! I didn’t ‘ear you come in.” 

            “Tom? Is everything alright? What are you doing ‘ere?” She took another step forward, concerned.

            “Erm…” he glanced out the window. “Want to go for a walk? Just… just us. Nothin’ unseemly, I promise- just, well even the garden’d do I suppose…”

            “Tom what’s the matter with you- you didn’t come all the way over jus’ to see if I wanted to _walk_ with you…”

            “No, but I… please can we talk somewhere… else?”

            “Alright.” She smoothed the front of her pinafore, though it was carefully perfect already. “We can go in the garden… would you like tea?”

            “No.” He shook his head. “No thank you.”

                      

They walked in silence, Tom’s eyes on the ground and his hands firmly behind his back. Lilly walked them to a garden bench built by her father, a little way off from the house- though still visible, Thomas noted. They sat and he sighed, fingers twitching.

            “You can smoke if yer like, I don’t mind.” Lilly said carefully and Thomas shook his head.

            “No, no it’s bad enough I’m… well.” He cleared his throat.

            “Well I’ll ‘ave to get used to it when we’re livin’ together, won’t I?” She covered his hand with hers and he twitched a smile.

            “Unless you’re ‘ere to tell me you’ve met someone more beautiful an’ clever an’ we can’t get married after all.” There was a note of strain to her joke.

            “No- no not at all!” Thomas finally looked into Lilly’s eyes and stifled the urge to laugh. “The opposite, really.”

            Lilly remained silent, to urge him on.

            “Well… I… um. There’s somethin’ you need to know before I marry you.” Thomas took a breath.

            “Yes?” She squeezed Thomas’ hand. “There’s nothing you could tell me that I wouldn’t love you the more for, Tom.”

            “Well you say that now… I’m a… that is, I- hmm. ’m a homosexual, Lilly.” He looked away.

            Lilly blinked. “I… I don’t know what that means, Tom.”

            “Ah.” Thomas cleared his throat. “Well, y’see… it means that I. Um. Am not like... other men.”

            “In what way?”

            “I don’t…. I-” he sighed. “I don’t like women the way other men do…”

            “But you like me?”

            “Yes! Yes I like you very much Lilly, so much I… but _not_ like- like the way I like _men_.”

            “What?” Lilly dropped his hand. “What are you sayin’?” There was a harsh edge to her voice.

            “Lilly- please-” Thomas glanced behind, tried to calm her.

            “No, Tom. What are y’saying?”

            “Just that I… I thought you’d understand- I can’t ‘elp it… I _do_ like you Lilly- love you, I mean- I jus’ can’t… jus’ can’t…”

            “You’re sick. That’s what y’are. You’re sick and wrong and I… I know what that means. Why would you tell me that, Tom? After all this time- and all along you’ve been-”

            “I thought I needed to tell you before we… before I couldn’t…” Thomas pleaded, “it doesn’t change how I f-”

            “It changes _everythin’,_ Tom. I’m not as stupid as you think I am- I know it’s _against the law-_ and _God_ \- and you were goin’ t’drag me into your sordid world with you! I can’t- have you been laughin’ at me behind my back all along then? Poor girl in love with you when-”

            “No, I _swear_ it, Lilly, I haven’t-”

            “-It is true- all _men like you_ are vile and vicious, an’ all they do is corrupt everythin’ around them.” She backed away from Thomas, humiliation flushing her cheeks.

            “Lilly-” He stood and took a step towards her,

            “Don’t come near me!” She threw her hands in front of her and Thomas winced and looked over his shoulder again, “You _repulse_ me. Don’t you _ever_ come ‘ere again- or I’ll tell _everyone_ what you are- I’ll tell them and you’ll be put in prison an' no one will look at you ever again because they’ll _know you_!” Her voice pitched wildly, there were tears in her eyes, and she backed off enough to clear his way.

            “Go!” She screeched, “Or I’ll scream an’ scream an’ scream until my dad comes out an’ then he’ll-”

            “Alright, _alright_ Lilly. Alright.” He held his hands up and backed away, moving slowly, and turning his back only when he had to.

 

He got half way down the path before he broke into a sprint, teeth set in a grimace and he tried to ignore the pounding in his chest, the sting in his eyes, the terror in his heart- and got almost half way home before a stitch caught him and he bent double, beads of sweat running down his back.

            He turned into an alleyway, lit by the rising sun, and put his hands to his temple, stopping for a moment as he caught his breath.

            “Damnit, damnit, God damnit.” He rarely swore but now he felt _righteous_ and his voice rose, “Damnit! Damnit! Damn it to _Hell_! Damn _me_ to Hell ha-ha!” He lashed out, kicking a stack of rubbish, sending it flying before he went for the wall, kicking it to no satisfaction and putting his fist to it as hard as he could, pulling back with a small noise of pain and cradling it. That was going to bruise later. He put the flat of his palms against the wall and let his forehead rest there, breathing deeply, feeling tears springing- _no_. _I’m not soft_.

            He turned and slid down the wall, sitting with his arms up on his knees. His eyes welled and he cleared his throat, throwing a glare at a lingering pedestrian, and pulled out a cigarette. It didn’t help, not really, but at least he felt a little less pathetic.

 

He didn’t move for a long time, trying to get Lilly’s words out of his head.            

            “I can’t ‘elp what I am.” He muttered, stubbing his smoke. “I can’t.” He felt a twisting in his gut. What was he going to tell dad? Unlikely Lilly was going to come back around to him- so… Thomas muttered a curse and half-heartedly kicked the wall as he pulled himself to his feet. But _God_ he was tired. He forced his feet forward, one in front of the other, and trekked home, hands in his pockets and head low.

            It was a beautiful, sunny day.

 


	4. Loxley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas realises he needs a way out.
> 
> Warnings for homophobia and homophobic language. Also some scenes of abuse.

Now it was near lunchtime- Thomas’ stomach was certainly reminding him, and it was likely his father would have noticed his absence. He paused outside his house, hand on the wooden gate, and took a breath. He couldn’t urge himself any further forward, _what am I going to say, what am I going to say, what **can** I say_ … He took another, deeper breath, patted his pockets, and realised he had no money, nothing except his cigarettes, and unless he wanted to starve, he didn’t have a choice.

                      

So he sneaked his feet forward, went around the house and attempted the back door. Trouble was, now he’d have to make it all along the corridor to get to the stairs, and the staircase was in direct sight of the living room- and the floorboards were _creaky_ -

            “Tom.”

            Thomas froze. “Yes, dad?”

            “Come in ‘ere.”

            Thomas put a smile on and presented himself to his father... and Mr Fickerwitch, sitting across the table from him. _Ah_. His smile faded.

            “Why don’t y’come and sit with us, Tom. Let’s get this all figured out.” Thomas couldn’t figure out which of the men were trying harder to control themself. He sat.

            “Now, Tom,” his father lead the intervention, with a look suggesting there was worse waiting for him when the guest was gone. “Mr Fickerwitch has come over t’tell me that somethin’ you’ve said ‘as upset ‘is daughter very much.”

            “Uh…”

            “So much so- she- well she-”

            Mr Fickerwitch decided to intervene, “She won’t marry you, Tom. I don’t know what y’did- all I know is my daughter ran up to me in tears and made me promise not t’let you marry ‘er.” He clenched and unclenched his fist. “What did you say to ‘er, Tom? To make her near-hysterical, she refused to even _tell_ me what it was-”

            “Mr. Fickerwitch- Sir- all I can say is… I…” Thomas wetted his lips. Telling a young lady who had designs for you was one thing- but two angry grown men? “I am… completely t’blame- and I’m sorry for any upset I’ve caused, I didn’t mean t’-”

            “I should say you are to blame- what the ‘ell did you say to my daughter, Tom-?”

            “Now, now, Paul, there’s no need for that- Tom isn’t spiteful- I’m sure this is all one big _misunderstandin’_ , isn’t that right, son?”

            “Uh. Yes. In’a manner of speakin’.”

            “Well you better explain y’self because we’ve already announced it to the family and I want this sorted by the time yous are supposed to be wed.”

            Thomas paused awkwardly. “’m not sure… ‘m not sure that’s possible, Sir. Let me explain m’self.” His fingers itched for a cigarette. “I… ‘ad to tell Lilly somethin’ about m’self before I married ‘er, an’ I did and she didn’t like it, so I understand why she won’t- it’s… not somethin’ I can change so I thought it best t’… well, I mean…”

            “What nonsense is this? What’s wrong with yer?” Mr Fickerwitch frowned.

            Thomas very firmly didn’t look at his father. “I- er.” His mind raced. “It’s difficult to talk about, Sir.”

            “Well you managed to say it to my daughter _alright_ -”

            “I’m impotent, Sir.” His mind grasped it and _perfect_. “I can never ‘ave children and I think she rather ‘ad ‘er mind set on some- y’know ‘ow women can be.” He finished weakly.

            The silence stretched for a beat. Thomas’ father was deadpan. Mr Fickerwitch paused and started his sentence a few times before settling on what he wanted to say.

            “Well. I mean… she can’t have made all that fuss over… _children_ …. You can still-?”

            Thomas cleared his throat. “I-err. I understand that it’s hard for a woman to accept, Sir. And I didn’t want t’trap her in a marriage without what she wanted- I didn’t want to cause any unhappiness.”

            “You can adopt, can’t you- that’s something that’s done these days- I can talk her out of this… there’s no reason-”

            “No, sir.” He said urgently. “Please don’t- she always talked about how she wanted children,” he silently apologized for putting this all on her, “her _own_ children- I think she’d been having doubts before an’ I- well I want what will make ‘er happy so I think it’d be best if I… if we didn’t- see each other anymore.” He forced himself to make eye contact, appeal to his better side- _understand me, somehow_.

            Mr Fickerwitch cleared his throat. “Well I’ll talk to her anyhow. I won’t make ‘er do anything she doesn’t want to- but I don’t see that this can’t be worked over.” He smiled reassuringly at Thomas, and Thomas raised a weak imitation back.

            “Thank y’sir, if there’s anything to be done I’m sure you can manage it.” He glanced at his father and back. “Would y’like to stay for lunch?” Try to get his father to calm down a little before the inevitable happened.

            “’fraid I can’t- I already said I’d only take the mornin’ off work- no rest for the wicked, ey?” He said grimly.

            “I appreciate that, Sir.” Thomas stood and offered his hand. He received a firm handshake and walked Mr Fickerwitch to the door before exhaling slowly as he closed it.

            “Dad I’m jus’ gonna go up and wash then I’ll-”

            “You get in ‘ere right now.”

            Thomas’ stomach clenched. He retreated to his father’s presence. “Now, dad-”

            “Y’think I don’t bloody _know_ what you told ‘er! What ‘ave you done you stupid soft bastard!” He grabbed Thomas’ lapels and shook him. Thomas cleared his throat at held himself steady.

            “I couldn’t live a lie, dad. I couldn’t do it.”

            “ _You_ couldn’t? And how the bloody ‘ell am I supposed to feel? D’you know what you’re doing to yourself- you’ll end up in prison, you keep this up!” He shoved Thomas backwards. “There’s a big difference between- between being what y’are, and tellin’ the whole bloody world about it!”

            “I’m not tellin’ anyone- I just couldn’t make m’self-” He stepped forwards, squaring his shoulders.

            “Then _learn_ to make yourself- not marryin’ are y’mad? ‘ow often d’you think women like that- ‘oo adore ya and‘ll turn a blind eye to anythin’ y’do come along? All _you_ ‘ad to do was not mess it up and you’ve made a right bloody slop of that one, ‘aven’t you?”

            “I… No- I don’t _want_ that- I can’t ‘elp how I am! I’ve got to- t’be my own man- I _can’t_ make myself, dad, please-”

            “Why have you _got_ to be the way you are, hmm? What went wrong with yer- and don’t you dare blame us because I didn’t raise some lavender pansy-boy!” He grabbed his son again, but Thomas flinched and slapped his father square in the face.

            “Let go o’me- you _bastard_.”

            Thomas’ father shook him and sneered in his face. “Y’think yer tough? You even hit like a _girl_. You want t’know how a _real_ man hits?” He let go and shoved Thomas’ chest. Thomas stood his ground.

            “Y’can’t hit me. ‘m not a kid anymore.”

            “Is that what you think? With yer big words- you know so much _better_ than your old dad, huh? Is that what you think? Think you can jus’ be what you want because you’re Thomas bloody Barrow and yer better than everyone else- you soft bent _bugger_!”

            Thomas stumbled backwards as his father’s fist connected with his face, and without quite knowing what he was doing he was hurling punches and struggling as his father wrestled him to the floor. He jabbed his father’s sides, wanting to _hurt_ him, not just run away, and elbowed his sister when she rushed downstairs to pull them apart, screaming,

            “Stop it! Stop it! Stop!” And then curled up on the floor next to them, crying softly and holding her hand to her face.

            The sound of his sister crying immediately broke Thomas out of whatever he’d been in. He panted, using the last of his strength to scrabble out from under his father and get to his sister, aware of her nose bleeding, his head pounding, and an ache swelling in his chest.

            “Oh _God_ ‘m so sorry I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I’m so sorry, ‘ere take my handkerchief, does it hurt? I’m so so sorry.” He knelt by her and cradled her head.

            “It’s fine, Tom, don’t worry about it, ‘m fine, you’ve taken worse- go an’ go an’ patch yourself up.”

            Their father towered over them. He pointed a finger at Thomas, still breathing heavily.

            “You. I want to see you married or I want you out o' this house. No more of this _confusion_. And _get away from my daughter_ with your unclean ‘ands, I don’t want you to dirty her- not when she’s all I’ve got-”

            “Dad. Stop. _Please_.” She stood, shaking off Thomas and standing on her own.

            “I’m goin' to clean up- you’ve gotta go to work. We can all jus’… jus’ forget about this.” She looked between the two men, silencing Thomas’ retort with a look. The older Barrow nodded his head and shuffled to the other room. She helped the younger get upstairs to his bed, running a damp cloth to clean him up.

 

            “I should be takin’ care of you- not the other way round.”

            “I think you’ve done enough takin’ care of things for today.” She dabbed his forehead.

            “What can I do?”

            “… I don’t know, Tom. I… well- I mean- I…” She laughed suddenly. “I tried to talk to Luke, about it-”

            “What?!” Thomas tried to sit up, suddenly,

            “No- no not like that- just. I sort of mentioned that there was a situation and he got very coy and laughed and wouldn’t talk t’me about it until I explained what I thought-”

            “What did ‘e say?”

            “Jus’ said that he figured as much. Told me ‘e didn’t mind, with you bein’ family an’ all- y’can’t ‘elp how you are an’ that.”

            “Oh.”

            “It’s only the older folk that mind, Tom. People know y’can’t choose this sort of thing. At least, the sensible people do.”

            Thomas was silent for a moment, taking the wet cloth from his sister and dabbing himself with it.

            “Anyway, we both agree you should give me away.”

            “What?”

            “We talked ‘bout it, and figured dad’ll… well he’ll have to deal with it- I want you to.”

            “Oh. Alright. I will- I’ll do that, if y’like.”

            “I would”

            …

            “’m sorry for elbowin’ you.”

            “Don’t worry yourself- I’m just glad I were there before you two killed each other.”

 

His father ate at the inn that evening, so Thomas and his sister ate dinner alone in silence, and went to bed early. At gone twelve Mr Barrow Senior stumbled into the house and clattered to his room. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and tensed under his duvet. Maybe he _should_ get married- talk to Lilly- no… that wouldn’t do… He had to give his sister away, and then he’d… well, he’d just wait. His father would drink himself to death, he wouldn’t kick Thomas out… _he couldn’t do that to his only son… he wouldn’t- there was nowhere he could-_

            Thomas’ eyes snapped open. He padded to his desk, lit a candle and scrawled a letter.

 

_Dearest cousin,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t written to you sooner, and I’d have liked to have written under better circumstances._

_I hope that the misses is well, and the children too, please send them my regards. I hope that things with you have been well too, and wish I could say the same of myself, but I have to write you and ask you a favour._

_~~You see,~~ _ _Ever since Mrs Barrow passed my father hasn’t been the same- as you know my sister is getting married in a matter of weeks ~~and so~~ and unfortunately my own engagement has just fallen through. I’m not sure how long I can stay under my father’s roof, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me around here much longer._

_I was wondering if there were any way you could put me up- it’s been rough getting over the events of the last few years ~~and I~~  and I’d be more than happy to work and make myself useful, contribute to the household, I just ~~don’t,~~ ~~can’t~~ don’t have anywhere else to turn._

_Please respond either way as quickly as possible, sorry for the imposition,_

_Kind regards,_

_Thomas Barrow._

He waited for the ink to dry and folded the page over, addressing the envelope and staring at it. So- he had a plan, then.

 

The very next day he started looking for a job- no harm in having a backup plan, was there? He spent more money on newspapers then he should have by rights, and realised how little work there was for an uneducated boy except manual labour. If this was what he wanted, he was going to have to commit fully- move somewhere else, find a whole new life.

            He wrote a number of letters, explaining that he’d need help finding accommodation, and there were a number of mining opportunities that wrote back with living quarters prepared- once they saw him face to face, his height and strength qualified him. But Thomas didn’t want to share a cramped room with sixteen other boys- didn’t want anything to do with other boys- he had his dignity, if nothing else. He’d seen those kinds of workers bent double after only three years in the hills, and knew the work was _hard_.

            _I’m not soft, but I don’t want to **ruin** myself._ _I want to live my own life._

            As answers came back, impatient and demanding, Thomas felt less inclined to take them and stopped writing- it was pointless if they wouldn’t hold the job until his cousin responded.

            In the meantime, he avoided his father as much as possible. Whenever he sat at the table with him his father would inquire as to when he was moving, ‘or 'ad he found a girl willin' to put up with him’, and then snort. Thomas started taking his meals in his room and his sister didn’t pass on the cutting comments his father made about him not being ‘worth you panderin’ to him’ from behind his newspaper.

            “Tom.”

            “Yes?” Thomas brushed the paper he’d been scrawling over to the side.

            “Are you leaving?”

            Thomas stilled as he took his tray.

            “Not you too, surely-”

            “Not like that- you’re reading a lot of newspapers.” There was a tidy pile by his feet that reached nearly to his knees.

            “Maybe I am.”

            “I don’t mind- I think it’d be great if you found something- might d’you good to get away- but what will you do?”

            “I don’t know- factory work, maybe? Or out in the fields- I’m strong…” He sighed and tapped his pencil.

            “But, Tom, you know what it’s like in those places.” Her worried look swiftly turned coy. “I only ask because- well, y’remember Phyllis?” Thomas nodded. “She’s got a job-” Thomas frowned at her,

            “Just listen t’me will yer? She’s got a job in a big house near here- she’s a housemaid- she makes good money and she’s taken care of and the work is _hard_ , but it isn’t awful.”

            Thomas tilted his head. “Are you suggesting I become a _maid_? I know I’m… but I’m not quite-”

            “No that’s not what I meant, you beast, and you know it.” She gently shoved her brother. “You could be a hallboy, though- there’s-…look- I found this.” She presented him with a ripped page from a paper Thomas didn’t recognise. “You’ve been looking in the wrong places.”

            “Since when could you read?”

            “You taught me, didn’t you?”

            “Not _this_ well- the print’s tiny….” He scanned it. “It doesn’t look _awful_.”

            “And the best bit is- they have space for you- in the house- where you live and eat- so you’d be taken care of and you’d be safe and… will you think about it?”

            Thomas scrunched his nose. “Not sure I’d want to work for some posh family that couldn’t give a rat’s arse about me.”

            Her face fell. “But- does that matter? It’s just _work_ , you don’t have to _like_ them.”

            “Seems people ‘ave been sayin’ that to me a lot recently.” He sighed. “What does a ‘hallboy’ do, anyway?”

            “Polish shoes, clean things, fix things, I think. Just little jobs-”

            “-The family can’t be arsed to do themselves?”

            “Yes. Exactly.”

            “If it means that much to you, I’ll consider it.”

            “Oh. Good. Thank you Tom,” she embraced him quickly and he chuckled.

            “Well, I suppose it’d mean I’d be around- it’s near here, isn’t it?”

            “Yes- out in the country a bit, I’ve seen sketches; it looks beautiful.”

            “Alright. Well I’m waitin’ on a few other offers- I’ll write to this place too, I suppose.”

            “Oh. Well, actually, you’ll ‘ave to go for an interview- they do this sorta thing face to face.”

            “Hmm. Alright.”

 

So he went- and he wore his best suit and they looked him up and down and asked if he intended to remain in the household for long, and Thomas said he did, and they asked if he was likely to grow much more, and Thomas said ‘a bit’ and they said he’d get paid more if he stayed on to become a footman, and Thomas nodded, and they asked his experience and he said he didn’t have any, and they tightened their lips but Thomas iterated he was a fast learner and- honestly- it seemed to go pretty well. And even if it was a smarmy, posh job, the people interviewing him were _servants_ themselves; and they seemed to be doing pretty well.

            A week later he was offered the position, asked to respond within the week and that was that. On the same day he received a response, finally, from his cousin. He hurried upstairs and tore it open, kicking the door shut behind him.

 

_Dear Tom._

_It was wonderful to hear from you, though we’re sorry to hear how you’re fixed. Our family have come into a good way, and we’d be more than happy to house you here, if you still need._

 

_A boy your age still has hope, and we’re sure that with our watching over you, you’d be well able to make something of yourself._

_As you know we aren’t as ‘liberal’ as your father is- but if you’re willing to live under our rules we’ve no doubt we can undo the damage he’s done you. I know that must be difficult to read but the fact of the matter is we’ve had some concerns about your raising, and are relieved you’ve sought us out before we had to find you- unmarried and without work is no way for a man of your age to be, but we promise to straighten you out and get you back on your feet. What else is family for?_

_Please send word back when you’re ready, and we’ll send you the boat fare over- hope to see you in a few weeks- I can’t imagine how you’ve grown!_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Your dearest cousin._

Well, he had expected as much. The rest of his family were far more married to traditions and expectations- and he hadn’t _expected_ a free ride but…

            Thomas held the job offer in one hand and the letter in the other. 

            He tsked and sighed, looking between his hands, and (as with the rest of Thomas’ choices) thinking on access to boys made up his mind for him.

            One piece of paper wound up in the bin, with a quickly scrawled apology letter thanking his cousin for his offered hospitality, and another letter was written to accept his place at the big house. He’d do this, and he’d take pride in his own work- having his own life at last- and he’d never let himself get hurt again because he was smart and he could take care of himself.

 

And so, at the age of seventeen, suitcase in hand and without saying a word of goodbye to the man who raised him, Tom Barrow walked up the gravel path and became a hallboy to the Payne family of Loxley house.


	5. Rob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes a decision.

The work was hard, beyond hard, and came just short manual labour; getting up at _five o’clock in the morning_ and being what seemed to be a barely paid slave to the rest of the staff, never mind the family was... not how Thomas had envisioned starting his ‘new life’.

 

He cleaned the shoes, polished the boots, fixed the servants clothes, emptied their chamber pots, and then crawled into his cot at night with hardly a word to anyone in-between. Not that anyone was unpleasant; they were just fairly uninterested in the aproned (he didn’t even get a proper uniform) boy rushing around doing as he was told.

            The house itself was fairly new- recently renovated, and the family were beyond rich enough to afford it- Thomas had never seen anything like it; huge rooms filled with things so expensive he could save his whole life and fall short of paying for even one of the decorative pieces littered about. Not that he was ever ‘upstairs’, as they called it, and if he was caught dawdling with his ‘head in the clouds’ he was clipped on the ear by the butler and sent on his way.

Mr Richards (the butler) had been serving the Payne family for _forty_ years. Forty. Thomas had no such intentions- he was here to save as much as he was able and then find a shop somewhere, where he could finally have a little peace, and a life of his own-

            “Oh _shite_!”

            That was Rob, the other hallboy (Lord knows how he’d managed the work on his own). Thomas looked down at his shoes, now smeared with silver polish, and frowned.

            “Now look what you’ve bloody done- you’ve ruined me shoes.” They were new-sturdy, practical things, but now he’d get in the shit and Rob-

            “It’s alright it’s alright I’ll clean it!” Rob quickly knelt, and started scrubbing Thomas’ shoes with a dry cloth. Thomas put his hands on his hips and huffed shortly. Rob looked up and shrugged.

            “’m sorry, you shoulda reacted faster.”

            “You should have bloody watched what you were bloody doing.”

            “You swear too much.”

            “Jus’ copyin’ you.”

            “Yeah, well, you’ll get in trouble if you get ‘eard.”

            “What do I care- I’m only ‘ere til I’ve saved up enough to go somewhere else.”

            “Think you’ll manage that on a _hallboy_ salary?”

            The door opened.

            “What on _earth_ is going on in here?”

            Rob turned his head and grinned. “It were my fault, Mr Richards, I spilt some polish on Tom’s shoe an’ I were jus’ cleaning it.”

            The older man narrowed his eyes and changed his mind about what he was going to say, “Well just you get back to work the second yer done. And _don’t_ be having any more accidents.”

            “Yessir.” Both boys chipped off and the door was left open.

            “What d’you recon that was all about?” Thomas shook his head,

            “What d’you mean?”

            “Well the look on ‘is face when ‘e came in ‘ere and saw us…” Thomas snorted, noticed that Rob had finished cleaning his shoes, but hadn’t stood. “’e probably thought we were up to somethin’ _indecent_.” He said carefully.

            Rob tilted his head, a knowing smile spreading over his face, still kneeling neatly in front of Thomas. “Why, Tom- what kinda _indecent_?”

            Thomas smirked. _Gotcha_.

 

In their chambers: Thomas tangled his hand in sandy hair, neat and short, but there was enough on top to get a good hold as Rob moved his mouth down-

            “Christ.” Thomas’ face was flushed, he knew he wasn’t going to last long- it had been so _long_ since any of this and Rob was _definitely_ more experienced than him. “Ah- _yes_ -” his hips flexed and his breath caught in his throat.

            “I’m gonna- oh _God_ -”

            Rob made a noise at the back of his throat, or spoke, or tried to, but it was enough- the room faded away and Thomas experienced clarity for a split second. His hand tightened in Rob’s hair and the other fisted the mattress cover, his back arched, and he came back to himself with a few desperate breaths.

            “Christ.” He repeated stupidly, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair. Rob chuckled and made his way up the cot, straddling his lap, as there was no room to lie next to him.

            “Glad I render you speechless.”

            “Shut it.”

            “No, really. ’s quite a sight.” Rob licked his lips and Thomas remembered his manners.

            He pulled Rob closer, hand undoing his trousers and taking care of him,

            “Well you’ll have to excuse my sloppy technique, I’m a little more _unpractised_ than you are.”

            Rob’s eyes flickered closed, “Mmm, don’t worry ‘bout it- I’m an- _ah_ \- excellent teacher- here, move your wrist like- _yes that_ \- just like that.”

            “How did you figure out I was… _like you_ anyway.” Inappropriate time for the conversation perhaps, but Thomas wanted to know. He twisted his wrist like he’d been shown and was rewarded with gasp,

            “Are you- _ah_ \- kiddin’ me? I figured from the second you- walked in- I jus’ didn’t make a move in case- well- well in case I were- _good, yes, like that_ \- wrong or y’weren’t _interested_.”

            “But, _how_?”

            “It’s jus’ somethin’ y’learn to spot- folk- _ah Tom, just a little faster, yes God_ \- like us can’t make too many… make too many- many uh- _mistakes_.”

            “But ‘m not… effeminate.”

            “That’s a big word- _God_ Tom I can’t- not if yer- _shite_ , let me teach you somethin’- teach you to do what I did to you- _please_ God-”   

            “Alright.” Thomas smirked as he watched Rob’s undoing, willing, if a little nervous as Rob rolled off him and switched their positions, guiding Thomas by the cheeks, as gently as he was able- pushing his head down, and Thomas choked, tried again, and followed Rob’s advice on technique-

            “Less _teeth_!”

            “Sorry, sorry.”

            “’s fine- just, make an ‘o’ shape and- _oh_. Yes. Like that- if you use your tongue like- _like that-_ I can’t do anymore Tom, you’re gonna have to- _oh_.”

            Rob tensed and Thomas paused until he was frantically whined at to keep moving and then- well, and then, Thomas had an _interesting_ experience. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant but never the less Thomas was uncertain, and looked up at Rob with his mouth firmly shut.

            “Oh- right. Spit it in a handkerchief if you don’t fancy…”

            Thomas did as instructed and wrinkled his nose at the mess. He looked at Rob; shirt undone, trousers open, growing softer by the minute, and stood, collecting himself together.

            “I’m not effeminate… am I?”

            “No- Christ no.” Rob laughed and followed Thomas’ example, “You’re almost indecently butch for a man of your sort- makes a change- I kinda prefer it that way anyhow, you’re just… I dunno.” He shook his head, “too obviously not interested in women, I suppose.”

            “Hmm.” Thomas pulled his jacket on and ruffled his hair, trying to make it look a little less _accidentally_ messy.

            “Which isn’t a problem in this line of work- it’s frowned upon to marry- jus’ means that other men like us will spot you at a distance.” Rob clapped him on the shoulder. “Fancy making a regular thing of this- rare I get to play teacher with someone twice my size.” He winked.

            “Alright. How?”

            “Oh _please_ , like anyone cares what we do so long as we do all work we’re set.”

            “Speaking of…”

            “Speaking of.”

The boys retreated back to the boot room.

 

Months passed, each day monotonous and repetitive, and each day Thomas got more and more frustrated that he never seemed to have a penny to spare. Worse- while the sex was _excellent_ , Rob was more than a little tedious- too young or too obvious or too rough, or _something_ , and in going along with his stupid little games he got himself in trouble one too many times. Or maybe it was Rob’s frankly annoying opinions on some things, which contrasted everything else about him,

            “Show me how you do it to yourself.” Thomas panted once, with Rob pinned to the cot underneath him.

            “How I… what?”

            “You know- with your hand.”

            Rob wrinkled his nose. “You don’t mean… oh I _never_ do _that_.”

            Thomas stilled and looked at him, brow furrowed. “Why not?”

            “It’s _dirty_ \- an’ it can cause blindness- and even cancer if you do it too much-”

            “It can _not_.”

            “Yes it can- I heard about it- an’ me dad said it were immoral-”

            “Rob?”

            “Yes?”

            “… You’re a _sodomite_.”

            “Well yes, but that’s not _my_ fault- I can’t help the way I was made- but doing _that_ to myself would be an entirely different matter- it leads to alcoholism and loose wits and…”

 

One incident was Thomas’ own fault. He overstepped himself. Some nosy little twit had come to visit, Lord something-or-other, and Thomas hadn’t liked him. The Lord had looked at him funny; cocky little bastard, and when they were alone he’d pushed Thomas up against the wall and shoved his hand down Thomas’ trousers. Thomas pushed him away, if only because he didn’t like it that way and the Lord had pushed him back,

            “I don’t _care_ what you want- you’re a servant and you’ll bloody well do as I say. And before you get _ideas_ \- no one will believe a single word you say, so lie down on the bed and make yourself useful why don’t you-” he snickered, “Don’t worry I’ll tip you well.”

            The idea that this man had guessed whom he was- or worse that he really didn’t care but thought he’d use him anyway… Thomas didn’t take well to that. He muttered a smart-

            “I have to get back m’lord, they’re expectin’ me downstairs.” -And stormed out of the room. But while he helped prepare dinner his anger boiled over at the _smirks_ the Lord threw his way whenever their paths crossed…

            He waited until one night dragged on to after-dinner coffee, and Thomas volunteered to serve in a footman’s place (it was only _coffee_ after all), and promptly spilled the young Lord’s cup into the young man’s lap.

            “I’m so sorry, Sir, I can’t imagine how that happened…” he collected the teacup.

            “You sonofabitch! You did that on _purpose_.” He leapt to his feet, obvious and embarrassing wet patch staining the front of his trousers.

            “Shall I fetch you a towel, Sir?” He inclined his head and excused himself.

            Luckily, the man hadn’t made himself popular- and he distinctly heard the lady of the house smoothing a giggle as he left. Still, Mr Richard’s didn’t take it well, even if it _had_ been an accident (he had no reason to think otherwise), it nearly cost Thomas his job- it certainly threw any chance of a speedy promotion out the window. Thomas learnt to keep upstairs and downstairs entirely separate.

 

As with most things in life, we can trace the paths we take to one decision: the decision to kiss or not to, to tell the truth or not to, or to take some advice or not to. Practicing cricket, Thomas had sent a ball through the window of the great house and figured his time was up. He was back to square one- he’d be sacked, have his money taken to pay for the window and be left on the streets with the clothes on his back. And worst of all it wasn’t _his_ fault. _Rob_ had egged him on, _Rob_ had bet him he couldn’t bat for toffee, _Rob_ insisted that everything would be fine- and now Thomas was going to be thrown out on his ear.

            Technically this was not the moment of truth- but had this event not happened, neither would the conversation have, it was the conversation _afterwards_ that shaped his life so completely.

           

“Tom. Come in.”

            Thomas shuffled into the room, head bowed, heart beating fast. He sat when he was bid and looked up, making sure he wasn’t going to interrupt before he spoke.

            “Mr Richards, please let me explain…” He wasn’t cut off. Thomas wetted his lips. “I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble, Mr Richards, but it was an accident, an’ I know it was a stupid thing to be doing, an’ I’m happy to ‘ave the damage taken out of my wages,” _well obviously they were going to do that_ , “And I… it won’t happen again if you… um…” Thomas swallowed and trailed off.

            “I know what ‘appened, Tom. It were you and Rob playing silly buggers, weren’t it?”

            Thomas nodded. Mr Richards sighed, and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “Look, Tom. You’re a good lad, I can tell that- but you’ve no love for this work-”

            “Mr Richards I-”

            Mr Richards held his hand up for silence.

            “Rob has been nothin’ but a nuisance since he arrived and we’ve had our reservations about keeping ‘im on for long enough- it’d be a shame to see a boy like you, with _potential_ , dragged down the same path.”

            “What are you saying, Mr Richards?”

            “I’m _saying_ , that Rob has given notice- we’ve promised him a good reference if ‘e leaves now but we _need_ a hallboy.”

            “I see.”

            Mr Richard’s sighed. “Look. I know why you’re ‘ere. You’ve got no respect for service, and you’re jus’ trying to avoid dirty work while you save up enough for… whatever it is that you want. An’ that’s fine. If you want to remain a hallboy.”

            “Mr Richards?”

            “If you want to succeed in this line of work, Tom, you’ve got to learn what it means to serve- you’ve got to respect the work, and understand the way of things, if you want to be any good at it.”

            “With respect, Mr Richards-”

            “There are more butlers that started out like you than you realize, Tom. An’ bein’ a butler of a fine house is no small thing. You have to _want_ it. If you choose to. _Or_ , you can save up, move on and find some other life for yourself. But in service, you’re safe, you’re fed, you’re secure- and you’re in one of the noblest positions possible for a lad of your beginnings.”

            Thomas didn’t have anything to say to that. Pricklings at the back of his head began when he imagined himself as a butler- stern Lord of the underworld of an estate- this estate, one day, maybe. His silence obviously carried approval because Mr Richards stood, and walked to the door.

            “I’ll let you think it over- there’s a book on my desk- _etiquette_ stuff, if you decide you’re serious.”

            Thomas nodded minutely, and waited a moment after the door was closed behind him before he snatched up the book and spent the next few sleepless nights digging through it, learning everything he could.

 

And the thing was: it was _easy_. Stand like this, don’t bend like that, don’t speak like this- no hands in pockets; serve like so etc.- and Thomas was _good_ at it. Of course- there had to be an adjustment: after a few weeks constantly sitting straight and standing like a soldier and walking silently stopped being uncomfortable. After a month he stopped thinking about it all together.

          Once, Mr Richards commented he’d look so _smart_ if he’d only neaten up a bit, so Thomas went to the mirror to see what he could smarten. He started putting oil in his hair and slicking it into a neat parting and _suddenly_ people stopped calling him ‘boy’ or ‘lad’. He would talk to Mr Richards about serving in the evenings, and started to learn things he hadn’t thought he’d need to- how the footmen would hold the plates, how they’d bend and serve as one, how they’d lower their heads whenever a family member passed… He probably ought to have noticed that he was being groomed but he was kept so busy, and remained so, he hardly had time to _think_ about the reasons why.

            At meal times he’d sit quietly, trying to learn anything from the idle conversations that passed, but no one noticed him. Not even the new hall boy, with an unfortunately spotty face, who was beyond boring and _far_ too interested in the chambermaids to be of any amusement. Thomas would have liked to speak to the chambermaids himself, to befriend with some of them perhaps- they at least seemed as though they had more than two topics of conversation (which chambermaid was the most attractive/ which was the most likely to risk being sacked for a little ‘fun’). He’d write letters to his sister, telling her how he was getting along- promising to come and visit on his half days and hearing about her married life. She seemed happy- their father… well, Thomas didn’t ask.

 

Thomas knelt against the cot, arms up and hands gripping the sheets in front of him. His trousers and underwear around his ankles, braces fastenings loose by his hips. He groaned and jerked his hips, as his knees were forced apart so the man kneeling behind him could move deeper. _I really ought to have put cushions down_ Thomas thought and gave in to pressing his chest against the mattress, head turned so he could just about make out the man behind him, his arms coming up to grip Thomas’ hands and he moved their hips as one, and Thomas hissed in pain and something else.

            The man was Lord Saivident’s valet. He’d come for two weeks, and within three nights he’d had wormed his way into Thomas’ bedroom. It had started with late night ‘talks’ that led to a hand on his knee, a hand on his face, a hand on the tent in his trousers, and now…

            “’m not sure I can do this.” Thomas said through gritted teeth, and the man behind him stilled.

            “You’re tensing. Relax around it and you’ll understand why we do it.”

            Thomas let out a huffed breath and tried to relax. The fingers, coated in petroleum, had been bad enough, but _this_? Thomas grunted inelegantly and clawed the sheets. _Why was he so sure he was a sodomite anyway, he wasn’t very good at-_

            “Bloody shite. Ow.”

            “Keep your voice down. Doubt anyone’d be forgiving of your injuries if they caught us.”

            Thomas nodded, inhaled deeply again and felt feather-light movements of the man’s lips over his neck and jaw. Thomas sighed and _finally_ understood what men saw in this- the pain had faded and now- and _now_. Thomas bit back a small noise and groaned instead, pushing his hips back.

            Immediately the man began to move, pushing into him and squeezing his hands, and all Thomas could hear was panting breath and groans in his ear as he was told how good-looking he was, and how the man had been dying to bend him over since he’d seen Thomas’ lips around a cigarette.

            And then Thomas’ wrist was guided downwards and Thomas brought himself off with the other man’s hand, even as he heard a small choking noise, and felt one last punishing push before a large weight collapsed on top of him and they both panted together for a moment, enjoying the wordless heat enveloping the room. It’d been too long since the last one and he’d been so pent up- but release was release and that was enough.

            The man stood, leaving Thomas to himself as he brushed himself down and idly did up his trousers, and that was that. Thomas took a little longer to gather himself- and realized very quickly that cleaning up would take more than tucking back into his trousers- he was _sticky_ …

            The man gave Thomas his Lord’s address, told him to write any time he was feeling ‘lonely’, and now Thomas had a _taste_. He walked a little stiffly for the next two days, but by day three he was gasping to try it again.

 

He sat in Mr Richard’s office- for the first time since the valet’s departure, and idly scribbled notes as they talked.

          “… And what did you think of him, then?”

            Thomas paused and tried to hide a smile. “He kept to himself, mostly, bit ah- cock-sure, if you ask me.”

            “Did you see how he sat in the servant’s hall?” Thomas had had eyes for little else.

            “He slouched- he’s one of the ones that only put a show on upstairs.”

            “Which means?”

            “He’s not devoted to ‘the life’ and might not last long in it.”

            “Well, _he_ certainly won’t, but there are many men, with no heart for the life, that get along just fine- they’re never happy though… always trying to escape.” He looked at Thomas for a long moment, as if deciding what to say next. 

            “Why won’t _he_ last very long then?”

            “Because _he_ , Tom, is a type of man you should be very careful of.”

            _Was the room suddenly colder?_ “What d’you mean?”

            “Well, Tom… I only ask because I noticed him talkin’ to you. He didn’t say… anything _improper_ to you- did he?”

            “I… don’t think so.”

            “Even in manner- was he a little… _informal_ with you?”

            “Not that I can think of.” His heart rate had trebled. Mr Richards, satisfied, nodded his head.

            “Good. Can’t ever be too careful with a man like _that_.”

            “Man like what?” He hadn’t been effeminate either, how had Mr Richards known?

            “Well, Tom. That man wasn’t like you or me- he was… _perverted_ \- inverted… you understand my meaning?”

            “I think so, Mr Richards.” He nodded.

            “Man of that sort… disgusting, really. All of ‘em corrupted, and drinkers too, mostly. I don’t know why anyone would let themselves get like that- its vile to even think… but it’s late- you ought to be turning in.”

            “Right you are Mr Richards.” Thomas stood stiffly and nodded his head as he walked to the door.

            “Best not mention it to anyone- it’s not my place to say anything to a man about his valet, not without _proof_ , but still- I know what boys are, but we wouldn’t want one of the maids overhearin’, you understand?”

            “Of course, Mr Richards.”

 

Thomas stormed to his room, slamming the door behind him. _Thinks he’s so bloody clever, thinks he knows everyone by looking- well I was having the hallboy for **weeks** and you didn’t notice you old_ … Thomas took a breath and paced his room, open scowl on his face. _How did he know- he certainly didn’t know about me or he’d never had… unless that was a warnin’… I can’t stay here if that’s what’ll happen…_ He growled and kicked his cot as hard as he could, then groaned and clutched his foot, hopping around the room, swearing rampantly.

            “Fine.” He grit out. “If no one will even get to _know me_ before the judge me… and they call themselves ‘merciful’, and ‘good’…” he snorted. “The hypocrites, the bastards, the- I can’t _help it_ you buggers!”

            Unexpectedly, he started sniggering, and then he sat on his bed with his arms wrapped around himself, trying to shake himself out of it, but no matter how hard he fought against it, he’d always be a crier and soon his was snivelling into his pillow. _Fine_. _Don’t like me. I don’t care. But don’t expect me to be kind in return._

 

If Mr Richards found it odd Thomas was suddenly reclusive and quiet, he didn’t let on. The few chambermaids who didn’t have sense enough to ignore a handsome adolescent suddenly found Thomas shunned them, telling them it wasn’t ‘normal’ for a lad to be friends with girls- that it’d only lead to trouble anyway.

            At the same time he started reading the employment sections of the newspapers the footmen discarded- it was just a hobby, a wane idea that never formed. Because Thomas realized, he didn’t _mind_ service. He was envious of the uniformed men above him, certainly, but only because he wanted to be _above_ them- and not in _that_ way. And there weren’t many great houses advertising for _hallboys_ , either.

            _Wanted: Junior footman: must be trained, presentable and respectable. Inquire for interview at-_

 _I could do that_ , Thomas thought. He knew what a footman was supposed to do- and even if he didn’t have any _practical_ skills, he could say he did. It was a good long train ride away- an entire other estate- but when he wrote his sister she responded that he should take it- maybe getting away would ‘help him’, somehow. So he applied; sent a letter, waited a few weeks, then forgot about it- the only way to get rid of Mr Richards would be to replace him, it seemed. Or better yet- if Thomas started certain rumours about their ‘little chats’…

            _Your interview time is at 2:00pm. Arrive promptly and inform the staff of your arrival_.

            Thomas stared at the letter, the words burned into his mind. He was out- he was _free_ \- no one would know him, he was- _calm down you daft sod; it’s just an interview_.

Before he knew what he was doing he was handing in his notice because _damned_ if he wasn’t getting this job, and then he’d start over, have his own life at last- where no one had known him as a boy, and where he could be a man…

 

            “And how tall are you Mr _Barrow_?” The name sounded unfamiliar on the interviewer’s tongue and in Thomas’ ear.

            “A hundred and eighty centimetres.” Thomas said honestly- he was certain he wasn’t done growing, and confused why people kept asking him. He’d turned up fresh faced, slicked back and as smart as he’d ever been in his life, and was lead through into an office twice the size of Mr Richards’, looking at an impressive older man, with grey hair and stern attitude. _Maybe he’s one of those jolly old men who only butter up when you get to know them_. The man was better spoken than any Thomas had met before, and automatically Thomas copied; his constantans clipped and his accent showing less through his ‘h’ and ‘g’s. The man made a note of his height.

            “And you’ve been working at Loxley house for…?”

            “A year, workin’ for the Payne family,” he realized he’d forgotten the older man’s name. _Shite_.

            “Well hardly, if you were just a hallboy, Mr Barrow. I’m frankly _surprised_ you applied for this job- and I hope you have some experience you did not make us aware of, to apply above your position, especially if you’ve only been in service for a year.”

            “Yes, sir.” _This is your moment, Tom, don’t muck it up now_. “You see, Sir, I’ve been trainin’ under our- that is- the Payne butler, Mr Richards, for the last few months- and he’s been preparin’ me for the role of footman, so I might not have any- uh- _practical_ experience, but I’m a hard worker, and a quick learner and I know how to serve, been practicin’ actually, and I know how to stand, and how to behave in the presence of the family, an’ how to hold a dish, and how to,” he waited for the man to stop him, but he sat, impassively, waiting for Thomas to run out of steam, “…an’- and how to polish, an’ how to clean, an’ how to dress smartly, and how to dress a gentleman an’ lay out his clothes,” oops, that was the valet’s job, “an’…” _inspiration_ , “I can wind clocks, and fix them too, and polish- no I said that already- I can… and I can.. er…”

            The older man held his hand up for silence. “You mentioned clocks?”

            Thomas exhaled and nodded quickly, stopping a smirk spreading over his face. _I did it._

As he was leaving, an older woman came into the room and he immediately nodded his head in acknowledgement, hands folded behind him.

            “And who is this?” the woman asked in a thick but clipped Scottish accent. Thomas realised she’d been asking him.

            “Tom…as.” He surprised himself. _No one called him ‘Thomas’_ , “Thomas Barrow, ma’am. I’m here about the junior footman position.”

            “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Thomas Barrow.”

            And so…

 

In 1905, at the age of eighteen, Thomas Barrow arrived at Downton Abbey as a junior footman, only one hundred and eighty centimetres tall, under Mr Carson: Butler to the Grantham family.


	6. Mr Watson

Life at Downton was… different. It was so a large estate it had four footmen, including Thomas, and seemed like it had been around forever, too. The older man- _Mr Carson_ , Thomas kept repeating in his head, was stern and strict and not at all jolly. Mrs Hughes, the Scottish woman he had caught a glimpse of, seemed to be the yin to his yang- the good to his evil- and even though Thomas wasn’t her responsibility, she kept an eye out for him, and patiently explained how things worked at this great house.

            And it _was_ great. Striking from a distance, approaching it up from afar Thomas had been breath-taken for a moment. It was a bloody cathedral of a place, and it housed _five_ family members.

 

Only the grandest houses had footmen, as they were something of a luxury- so Thomas consoled himself that by being a _junior_ footman he must be serving one of the finest house indeed. He smartened his livery in the mirror, eyeing the green and black striped waistcoat warily, and practiced tying his bowtie until it wasn’t a complete mess.

            On the first day, he managed only to get in the way, he wasn’t even to carry the sauce for dinner- in effect he was a hallboy with a uniform, but he suspected that Mr Carson was eager to have as many men walking around in livery as possible. What were they all needed for? What was _Thomas_ needed for? But the hallboys were below him now, so he ignored their mischievous chatter and cheeky grins as he sat beside them in the servant’s hall.

He started doing odd jobs that were instructed of him, and foolishly took on the work that the older footmen dropped on his plate, not realizing they were the ones tasked to it. The only official duty he had was to wind the clocks, and keep them in check, but no clock of the Grantham’s expenses was liable to break down in a matter of weeks… He wasn’t going to ask for help- he was going to prove himself, one way or another.

            Then, as frustrations began to mount, he started leafing through the books he’d been given and his old notebooks, in the evenings, at any free moment- trying to make sense of what he was supposed to be doing…

 

_The first footman is the designation given to the highest ranking footman in a given household. The first footman also serves as deputy butler and may act as butler in the latter's absence, although some larger houses also have an under-butler above the first footman._

_In a larger household, various footmen might be assigned specific duties (for which there may be a traditional sequence), such as the silver specialist. Usually the footmen perform a range of duties, which include serving meals, opening and closing doors, carrying heavy items, or moving furniture for the housemaids to clean behind. The footmen might also double as valets, especially for visiting guests. Since a footman is predominantly for show as much as for use, a tall footman is more highly prized than a short one, and good looks, including well-turned legs…_

Thomas thought of the older men serving as footmen beside him and snorted. There was no mention of a ‘junior’ footman. At least it explained why people kept asking about his height... Well- oughtn’t he take on _some_ of the duties, then?

 

The next day, as he sat in the hall that had started to become familiar to him, beside a footman called William he didn’t much care for, he cleared his throat and asked politely, as other conversations lulled,

            “Why don’t I help with servin’ supper?”

            Mr Carson didn’t look up from his meal but spoke to his plate, “Because you’re a _junior_ footman, Thomas. You haven’t been trained to go upstairs.”

            “I know how to do it, Mr Carson. I’m not an idiot- all you have to do is hold things and dish them out at the right time.” From besides him the footmen glanced at each other.

            Mr Carson gave him a firm look and then eyed Mr Watson, (valet to his Lordship and first footman), who had slick blond hair and sharp brown eyes.

            “Alright, Mr Watson, _Thomas_ is to serve the meat tomorrow, at dinner.”

            Surprisingly, Mr Watson did not seem offended and merely nodded his head. “If you say so, Mr Carson.”

            “You can carry the sauce, and George,” the second footman, “you’ll have Thomas’ job this evening.” George nodded, but he didn’t look happy about it, and shot Thomas a dark look. William (the third footman) was left ignored, as usual.

            Thomas smiled to himself. _Opportunity seized_ , and ignored the glances that were shooting above his head.

 

Dinner was a _disaster_. Thomas marched forward, thinking Carson must have seen his potential and that he was ready for it, but when he transferred the main dish: _boeuf braisé au vin rouge_ to his right hand, he abruptly realized how heavy it was. Letting not a glimmer of it show on his face he bent forward, clenching his teeth and nodding tersely when Lord Grantham asked if he were the new footman.

            “Junior footman, M’lord.” His stomach clenched and he hoped that was the proper address. He shifted, only three people left to serve, but his wrist was aching- he could feel a slight tremor.

            “As you were.” He returned to his food and Thomas was, once again, part of the furniture.

            Mr Carson was watching him closely, and Thomas could feel colour rising in his cheeks, _you’re a bloody idiot_ , and he was in so much pain by the time he rounded the table he couldn’t even focus on the conversation taking place. When he walked through the green door (the gateway to the servant’s realm) he immediately put the plate to the side and clutched his hand, groaning softly.

            “And that’s why y’need training to do our job.” Came smug Mr Watson behind him. Thomas resisted the urge to swear at him.

            “Yeah, well I did alright, didn’t I? Didn’t drop it. Besides- I’ve just got a bit of cramp, nothin’ I can’t handle.” He glared and stopped massaging his aching wrist, wondering if he could sneak a dressing on it later.

            “I wouldn’t be so sure… Carson wants to see you.” Mr Watson smiled unpleasantly and trotted, triumphant, to collect Thomas’ plate as well as his serving jug-

            “I can do that.”

            Mr Watson glanced to Thomas’ arm and snickered. “Wouldn’t want your _cramp_ getting any worse, Thomas.”

 

Thomas closed his eyes _don’t lose your temper it’ll do you no good you lost your temper yesterday and see where it got you._ He took a breath and followed down the stairs, where Mr Carson stood waiting for him- calling him into the servant’s hall so everyone was stood to attention around him. _What have I done wrong, then?_

“Thomas, when you asked- or demanded, I might add- for duties above your station I assumed you would have the wherewithal to carry them out.”

            “I wasn’t expectin’ the tray to be so heavy, it’s true, but I didn’t _show_ it and I wasn’t strugglin’…”

            “Thomas.” Mr Carson said slowly, as if addressing a small child, “When footmen serve a meal, _traditionally_ they serve together, presenting the sauce and the meat at the same time,-”

 _Shite. He’d completely forgotten to cheek he was in time_ ,

           “-And Mr Watson tried to keep time with you, but you seemed to make _no effort_ whatsoever to pay him the same courtesy.”

            _So this was him being taken down a peg, then- just because he dare try to better himself_. Thomas could feel anger rising in his cheeks.

            “Furthermore I’m glad that it was only his Lordship and his daughters dining- had the _Dowager Countess_ been present or Lord forbid any _guests_ I should be taking this matter far more seriously.”

            Thomas stood, aware that all pretences of conversation around him had been dropped and everyone was staring at him. He blinked several times, resisted the urge to clench his fists and grit out,

            “Sorry, Mr Carson. I understand now what I did wrong, next time-”

            “There isn’t going to _be_ a next time, Thomas, not until you’ve learnt to behave correctly- and shaking the food in front of someone is no way to appetize them.”

            “But Mr Carson I-”   

            “ _No,_ Thomas.” Mr Carson said gravely, as if that ended the matter entirely. “Now, I think _you_ will go and rinse these for the maids tonight, and perhaps consider why you are only a _junior_ footman.” Thomas lowered his head to hide his glare and clenched his jaw.

            “However- as you’ve shown yourself so keen to begin training, _you_ will be serving afternoon tea from now on.”

            Thomas glanced up, surprised, and Mr Carson gave him the slightest nod before he left the room, and everyone sat. Thomas dared a look around.

            “Lucky sod. I think he thinks you’re _smart_ or something”, George said snidely from the table.

            “That’s not fair- Thomas showed initiative, I think that deserves a reward. None of you lot ever tried _asking_ to get where you are.” Added William, Thomas frowned. _I don’t need **your** help._

            “It worked, didn’t it? Maybe I’ll have _your_ job before too long.” Thomas said to George with a smile, “an’ you can have mine.”

 

Later that evening, Thomas paced his room, idly undressing as he did. He had heard the footmen snickering about him, Mr Watson leading them from the rocking chair in the corner, and Thomas had continued writing a letter to his sister as if he couldn’t hear them. Inside he was fuming- _just’ cos I’ve got the brains to try for what I want_. But what could he do? He couldn’t _fight_ Mr Watson, even though he’d more than filled out his frame- he looked twenty, not eighteen- _nearly nineteen, now_. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the parting. He’d had a haircut and his hair was a lot shorter at the sides than it had been before. It looked… _shiny_ …

 _Bloody Mr Watson bloody mock me for bloody trying_. He tilted his head and considered. He _couldn’t_ complain to Carson for some light teasing, but he _could_ make Mr Watson see how he liked the same back. Thomas didn’t have a spiteful streak, that he knew of, but suddenly ideas were forming and why _shouldn’t_ he have his own sort of fun?

            It started small- he saw Mr Watson on the way to George’s room one evening, deck of cards in hand, and glanced to Mr Watson’s empty room. _I shouldn’t… if I’m caught_ … he took a breath and padded inside, pushing the door shut with one finger. He didn’t do anything much: petty schoolboy stuff, but it was satisfying never the less when Mr Watson came downstairs the next morning, shifting at the breakfast table and looking steadily more uncomfortable as the morning went on-

            “Ah, I must’ve grown.” He confided to George, “my bloody braces…”

            “There’s no need for that language, Mr Watson, _especially_ at this time in the morning.” The scalding voice of Mr Carson sounded from the head of the table. Thomas smirked.

            Mr Watson didn’t have a spare moment to loosen his braces until well past lunchtime, by which time he would refuse to sit, kept shifting, pulling at his trousers when he thought he wasn’t being watched, and wound up with a good talking to from Carson into the mix.

            “Mr Watson- smartness is imperative here, but your trousers are obscenely well-held up… there’s too much of you on display for anybody’s liking.”

            “I know, Mr Carson,” discomfort was obvious on his face, “I can’t think what’s happened…”

            “Well you’d better go and sort yourself out, right now, before you’re seen upstairs again.”

            “Yes, Mr Carson,” red faced he retreated to the bathroom.

            Thomas wasn’t satisfied.

 

The next day Mr Watson came down, flustered and scratching at his arms and collar. He turned to Daisy with scorn,

            “My shirts didn’t _all_ need washing, y’know.”

            “What d’you mean?” Daisy blinked at him whilst managing to run around doing one hundred jobs at a time,

            “Well I can’t think where else they’ve got to- I’m stuck in just my collar and dickey- don’t tell Mr Carson…”

            “Why on earth would I do _that_?” She huffed and ran to the other end of the kitchen, “I don’t have time for this, Mr Watson, ’m behind- I’ve gottah go stoke the fires in the small library.” And she hurried out of the room.

            Thomas got steadily more amused with himself as Mr Watson got more fidgety; the valet even dared to rotate his neck so to sooth the itch his tailcoat was causing his shoulder, with only his undershirt to stop it- at upstairs dinner no less. _That_ did not go unmissed by Carson, and it seemed that Mr Watson was permanently in the doghouse now.

 

Thomas couldn’t help himself, he kept pushing, odd things going missing from Mr Watson’s room- nothing major, nothing _suspicious_ , but Mr Watson was getting wise, and Thomas knew the next move had to be sneaky, or he’d be caught out.

 

He hovered in the servant’s hall, standing outside to smoke and avoiding Mr Carson’s watchful eye when an older woman appeared, and Thomas tried not to stare- _she_ was smoking.

            “You’re th’one playing silly games with Mr Watson, aren’t you?”

            Thomas blinked. “What makes you say that?”

            The woman smiled, “I notice things, me. Like I notice you starin’ at _me_. Think a woman shouldn’t smoke?”

            Thomas shook his head, “No, I’ve jus’ never seen it before- shouldn’t think Carson would approve.”

            “Well that’s why I’m out here, aren’t I?”

            Thomas shrugged.

            “Miss O’Brien. Seein’ as you didn’t look like y’were goin’ to ask.”

            “Thomas.”

            “I know. You’re the new footman. Oh, sorry, _junior_ footman.”

            Thomas tsked, “Don’t remind me.”

            “Well if I were you I’d do somethin’ about it.”

            “Like what?”

            “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m just sayin’.” She flicked her cigarette away, “that’s what _I’d_ do.” She turned and walked back inside. Thomas tilted his head. Something told him he’d gained an ally.

 

Over the next few weeks Thomas became firm friends with O’Brien- they met every day, outside, and discussed things they didn’t like- Mr Carson and Mr Watson, mostly.

            “Well think if you could get rid of him.”

            “How?” Thomas exhaled slowly.

            “Well- show Mr Carson his flaws- you know how he likes things all prim and proper.”

            “Mr Watson doesn’t have any bloody flaws, that’s the problem.”

            “Every man has flaws- you’re not looking hard enough is all.”

            Thomas tilted his head. “Are y’telling me you know somethin’ I don’t?”

            “I’m not telling you anything except a friend’s advice. And every man needs a friend- lest he succumb to drink and disorder.” She smirked. “Anyway, that’s the gong.” She walked inside and Thomas frowned. _Where had that come from, then?_

Thomas soon figured it out- he saw Mr Watson disappear into Mr Carson’s room in the momentary lull after breakfast (lull for the footmen, at any rate,) and paused. Mr Carson was upstairs, checking place settings, as he always was at this time so why…

            Mr Watson was stealing wine. Nothing too expensive, nothing that would be noticed for years to come, but every few days a bottle would go missing. Whether he was drinking or selling them was irrelevant- when Thomas told Mr Carson…

            “Why tell him?”

            “What?” Thomas frowned at O’Brien. “That’s _why_ I found out about it- so I could get rid of him.”

            “And when you tell Mr Carson there will be an entire inventory of all the wine that’s missing.”

            “So?”

            “So you won’t be able to carry on his good work. Or weren’t you lookin’ to make a tidy bit of pocket money?”

            Thomas blinked. “You… what do _you_ get out of this?”

            “Oh, nothing- I’m just helping you out. O‘course, if you _wanted_ to buy my smokes for the next few weeks, I wouldn’t complain- call it a _finder’s fee_ , if you like.”

            Thomas nodded slowly, taking another inhale and admiring the glowing end of it. “Well, then. How am I supposed to get rid of Mr Watson now?”

            “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Thomas. And something a little more clever than schoolboy pranks, this time.”

 

In the midst of Thomas’ conundrum with Mr Watson he’d also started getting trouble from people of a more… _female_ persuasion.

            The trouble was, Thomas’ lack of interest in the various maids that worked alongside him had created an air of mystery around him- and even when he was standoffish and uninterested, it only seemed to inflame them further; they’d corner him any time they were free, start eager conversations over dinner- in fact they seemed to be in fierce competition over him.

            _Well, I **am** handsome_. Thomas thought to himself as he did up his bowtie in the mirror, admiring himself one morning. His hands stilled. _Shite, I’m handsome_. Handsome boys were expected to marry- no not in his line of work… but then again, they might think there was something _wrong_ with him if he didn’t at least take an interest in one of them. Thomas sighed shortly, thinking briefly and painfully of Lilly. _Well, I can’t be doin’ all that again_.

            He couldn’t talk to O’Brien about it- thank the Lord she was older and there was no _suggestion_ of anything more. Not that he was entirely sure O’Brien was capable of those kinds of feelings anyway- they got on well precisely _because_ she was so heartless. He frowned, and made an executive decision, for himself. It wouldn’t make him popular, but it’d keep him and his job safe.

 

Surprisingly, Thomas was _good_ at repelling people. Once he started being spiteful- saying ‘I thought make up was the devils paint?’ to a girl who’d applied a little rouge to her cheeks to impress him, for example, he couldn’t stop. He was hesitant at first, not used to _trying_ to push people away, but then- suddenly he could say what he was really thinking- and it felt _good_.

            Gwen, for one, heard him sneer about the reputation of one of her friends and lost interest in that same moment, snapping at Thomas that he thought ‘he was so handsome he could get away with treating anyone however he pleased… well let’s see how long you keep your friends then, eh?’ and almost all maids dropped their line of pursuit not long after, with ‘when did you get so cruel?’ and ‘you could have just _said_ y’weren’t interested’. All except for Daisy. Daisy didn’t seem fazed, and true, Thomas hadn’t ever let his nasty side out directly at her, (it seemed pointless, she was so stupid _she probably wouldn’t notice even if I **were** to be as nasty as I could be- _that and it seemed to annoy William, and William was a sappy wet blanket of a man who deserved a little anguish to improve Thomas’ temperament). He took malicious satisfaction in being so quick-witted and clever. Who would have thought what should have made him obvious protected him from the same suspicions; no one cares what’s inside the head of someone they don’t like, after all, and watching smiles drop from faces, and anger rise in fair cheeks- made him powerful somehow. Or just contemptuous.

 

“You _have_ become a prickly fellow, haven’t you?” O’Brien commented once.

            “Well, you’d understand it if I explained m’self.”

            “Not prickly to me, though?”

            “No.” Thomas shook his head. “No need.”

            “Because we’re friends, aren’t we Thomas? We can always rely on one another.”

            Thomas nodded; pleased she hadn’t asked him to elaborate. But then again, O’Brien seemed to understand him without effort in a way no one had ever even tried to- she knew his moods, and he knew hers, and they were a devious little pair together- triumphantly isolated in their nastiness. Except, while people were wary of O’Brien, they didn’t avoid her in the same way they now did Thomas.

            “Well that’s because I don’t go out of my way to be offensive, unlike you.”

            Thomas shrugged. “I don’t care. I don’t need anyone else. I was never interested in bein’ friends with them anyway.” He took a slow drag.

            “Well, be careful of burning all your bridges, no one will help someone who wouldn’t give them the time of day. And I don’t mean ‘help’ in the way you think.”

            Thomas considered, and then shrugged again. “I’ll just smile and they’ll all come flocking back- I can be charmin’ when I want to be.”

            “Just be careful of makin’ yourself too obvious a villain- you might find you’re not as clever as you think you are.”

 

“Thomas, might I have a word?”

            Thomas looked up from his paper and stood, immediately. “Of course, Mr Carson.”

            Carson gestured that Thomas ought to follow him to his office, and shut the door behind them, taking his place behind the desk.

            “Thomas, I can’t help but notice your… _uncooperative_ attitude as of late.”

            Thomas shifted. “I ‘aven’t said anythin’ out of line, Mr Carson- just speakin’ my mind is all.”

            “Well if you could refrain from doing so unless you have something _pleasant_ to say- I won’t have this household soiled by the bad mood you seem to have put most of the staff into.”

            “I don’t want to cause trouble, Mr Carson, ‘merely lookin’ out for myself.”

            “In what way? Have people been starting trouble with you, Thomas?” Carson picked up a pen, ready to write up Thomas’ testament.

            “Not as such, Mr Carson, jus’ a manner of speakin’- I thought it best not to give the maids the wrong impression.”

            “And what ‘wrong impression’ is that?” Carson’s great brows furrowed.

            “I just mean… I’m dedicated to my service here, and I was eager no one should think I had any intentions to distract myself.” Thomas said smartly, and that seemed to have been the right choice; Mr Carson nodded.

            “While I’m glad to hear it Thomas,” honestly, the man couldn’t even _agree_ without dealing advice and caution, “be sure you aren’t overzealous in your determination. There’s no need to upset anyone when a gentler word will do the job.” He dismissed him and Thomas couldn’t hide his smirk as he strutted down the corridor.

 

There was only housemaid who’d never been _overly_ familiar- a quiet blonde lady called Anna Smith- had always seemed a little at odds with the rest of the household, but because she was so pleasant no one noticed. She was mostly friendly and never made herself welcome where she wasn’t wanted.

 _Mostly never_.

            “Hello Thomas.” She said as she sat beside him.

            “Hello.” Thomas glanced at her warily.

            “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

            “Obviously not.” Thomas gestured with his cigarette to the empty table in front of him.

            “Only, you’re going to find yourself very lonely if you don’t start being a bit kinder to people.”

            “Why should I be? I don’t care about _them_.” Thomas frowned. He’d meant to dismiss Anna with stony indifference. Something about her brought out his honesty… and that was dangerous.

            “You might find you did, if you gave them a chance.”

            “No one gives me a _chance_.”

            “What d’you mean?”

            “Nothin’.” Thomas gave up nursing his cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Leave it alone.” He stood and Anna went to speak so Thomas turned to her and said firmly, “Leave _me_ alone- I don’t need your sympathy- much as it pleases you to give it.” And marched smartly out of the door, adjusting his gloves.   

Thomas _didn’t_ get lonely. And he didn’t get caught, either. No one cared what he did with himself any more; he’d become the distant stray cousin in the family of Downton, if you wanted to call it that; one that everyone secretly wished hadn’t been taken in, but couldn’t shake off. He’d started collecting secrets, any information he could use- to protect himself (he told himself), and also because he took some satisfaction in learning other people’s wrongdoings; knowing they were no better than he was and imagining scenarios he could use that information to better _himself_ \- yes. There was sinful irony in that.

 

Not having an obligations to anyone, Thomas was free to wander through town late into his half-days, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for. Someone to sell the wine he’d started pinching to, and…

 

He was drinking in the seediest pub he could find- oddly full of younger men, and a few older ones (but little in the middle ground), and some effeminate, _obvious_ , cat of a thing approached him. Normally, Thomas would have avoided that type- nothing for him there, but it had been a _while_ and he was already half-ratted so when the boy finally got the courage up, and but _God_ he was young (Thomas himself just shy of 20), to gently inquire if Thomas knew anyone by the name ‘Nancy’, Thomas smirked,

            “Certainly I do- she’s waitin’ for you outside. Would y’like me to introduce you?”

            He led the young fellow out, into a deserted alley- no one would be comin’ down here without equally nefarious a purpose- and Thomas had those young lips on his own as he pulled the lad closer and suggested one or two things they could do, if he were up for it.

            “Alright mister, but I’ll have to see the money up front.”

            “Money-? You cheeky bugger.” Thomas shook his head- he supposed everyone had to make a living, but surely he was too young to be doin’ _this_? Thomas consoled himself that he was doing the lad a favour. “Alright, how much?”

            “A shilling for what you want.”

            “I’ll give you sixpence and a clip ‘round the ear if you’re not careful.” Thomas offered the money- the boy shrugged and nodded, taking the coin,

            “Well, jus’ this once- ‘cos you’re so ‘andsome.” He got to his knees and Thomas glanced up and down the alley before fumbling at his trousers.

And that was how it was; every week Thomas would disappear down back alleys, public toilets, the right pubs (not that there were many in Ripon) and Thomas kept his head relatively down. Or as much as he could for someone so ~~handsome~~ distinctive, but then again, no one could tell on him without him risking the same back… Still, he kept to a very small outer circle of ‘earnest’ individuals, who were more than obliging once you showed them a silver coin. Usually he’d have his way with them in a nearby hiding spot, or perhaps in the bathrooms in some of the more underground places- and he was carful never to go at the weekend or on a Friday evening, when these places were most busy, and most risky. All in all, he was satisfied, clever, and very smug.

 

“Thomas, can I ‘ave a word?”

            Thomas blinked at the flour-covered woman in front of him. He couldn’t have exchanged more than five words with her over the last year, none of them particularly pleasant… what business could a cook have with a footman? _Junior_ footman. He frowned.

            “What is it?”

            “Why don’t you accompany me in to Mr Carson’s office- I’ve asked to use it- I ‘aven’t said why.” She added quickly.

            “What’s this about?” Thomas glared- _who does she think she is- the only person she’s allowed to lecture is Daisy, an’ the only person allowed to ‘invite’ me into their office is-_

            “Best talk about it in private.” She looked embarrassed, but stern. Thomas’ stomach clenched.

            “Alright, have it your way- although I don’t know what you want to talk to _me_ about.”

 

Inside they sat at a little table in the corner- neither daring to step near Mr Carson’s desk. Mrs Patmore shuffled and wiped her hands on her apron for the umpteenth time. Thomas’ frown deepened as the inner workings of his mind determined the worst possible things she could want to talk to him about. _No- there’s no way she can know anythin’ about me- not unless she has a secret worse than my one…_ Thomas resisted the urge to gag or shudder.

            “What’s this all about, then?”

            Mrs Patmore looked up, as if she’d forgotten where she was. “Ah- yes. Thomas- yes. Well, I suppose I’d better start at the beginnin’, hadn’t I?” her smile died on her face. “Right. Yes. Well, then. As you know, I get all the goods for meals ordered fresh- an’ delivered up ‘ere.”

            “What has that got to do w’me?”

            “Well- the other day- the delivery boy- ‘e forgot the mustard seeds- so I ‘ad to make a trip into town m’self to get some- Daisy was busy, y’see…” _why did she sound like she was apologizing?_ She cleared her throat and continued, hands playing over her apron absently. “Only when I were in town I… I _saw_ you, Thomas.”

            Thomas’ stomach dropped. “I don’t know what you think you’re talkin’ about, Mrs Patmore-”

            “I _saw_ you, Thomas- with- well you were with some young- er- man- and you went round the corner and…” There were all manner of things Mrs Patmore could fill in here- Thomas hadn’t been feeling very subtle, and the boy had been _very_ pretty- golden hair, with slight curls, and blue eyes… Thomas came back to the present; aware he hadn’t said anything in his defence.

            “Now, look, Thomas. I’m sure you’re ashamed of yourself, as you rightly should be- but I couldn’t just stay quiet… not when I knew _that_ was goin’ on.”

            Thomas frowned at her. She obviously expected him to be mortified he’d been caught out.

            “Y’see Thomas, I know you can’t ‘elp yourself, I ‘aven’t told Mr Carson, nor will I- I don’t think I could find the words.” She laughed awkwardly. “This can stay between us, an’ I don’t look on you badly for it- I know your- er- _type_ \- are more… well, anyway- I jus’… you _can’t_ do that here, Thomas.”

            “Look, Mrs Patmore…”

            “It isn’t _decent_ \- can you imagine if someone else ‘ad seen; the ‘ouse would never get over the _shame_ of it. Not to _mention_ what you’ll do to yourself if you carry it on.”

            “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Thomas snapped.

            “Nothin’! Just… I can’t _believe_ I’m talking about this.” She was so flustered Thomas felt curls of pity- no not pity, _contempt_ \- for her. “Those kinds of men… they aren’t… _clean_ … not in- I mean they’ll make you _sick_ if you aren’t careful.”

            “Thank you, Mrs Patmore, I’ll bear that in mind.” He stood to go.

            “No- Thomas- you know I can’t just let you risk the reputation of the family with your reckless and… _immoral_ behaviour. I know you’re only young- we all make _mistakes_ but…”

            “Alright.” Thomas nodded. “I give you my word I won’t go out anymore- not to _those_ parts of town. I’ll be a good boy and not stray from the path, if you think it best.” Could he squeeze any more cynicism into his sentences? Probably not.

            “To think what goes on behind closed doors, even in our quiet little village…” Another nervous chuckle, “Thomas, it’s no different than the other, regular lads, is it? They aren’t allowed to do… _anythin’_ , with the girls, either, so…” she sighed. “I can’t ‘ave this conversation with you, it’s making my stomach turn- you understand, for a woman my age, or any age, to speak like this…” she shook her head. “I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said. It’s not too late to…” She couldn’t finish her thought.

            “Oh I certainly will, Mrs Patmore. If you’ll excuse me.” Thomas said shortly and marched out of the room, cheeks losing their angry blush as he went straight upstairs to change his shoes.

 

 _Somehow false acceptance is worse than rejection_ , Thomas mused. Silly women that thought they were _so progressive_ because they didn’t think Thomas deserved prison or worse. _Well I can’t help it you silly tart- an’ I won’t be lectured on my behaviour by a women who no bloke has gone near for **centuries**. _ He grit his teeth and without quite thinking about it, picked up an ashtray and threw it against the wall. He wanted to smash _everything_ in this stupid little room and burn it all down- no- pull it apart with his bare hands- _temper temper- oh **sod** my temper!_ He smartened himself up, taking a deep breath and unclenching his fists. _Fine_. _Suppose she ‘as a point. If I’m caught… but why should anyone give a damn what I do so long as I do my job properly?_ It was decided then. _Everyone who knows me wants me dead, beaten, imprisoned or just swept under the carpet, nicely out of the way, so I don’t hurt their petty little sensitivities. Fine._ _You don’t think I’m capable of bein’ a good man the way that I am- I won’t be. I’ll show you what ‘untrustworthy’ and ‘immoral’ looks like, just you wait…_

There was an edge to O’Brien, and Thomas was very aware of it. It had been there since they met, really. But, Thomas had decided that it was better to be friends with nasty people, because at least then you’re under no allusions. 

            “You’re in a terrible mood this morning. I can’t think why.”

            Always with that elusive but all knowing tone. “Is a man supposed to be jumpin’ for joy; wakin’ at the crack of dawn to do things he doesn’t want to, for people he doesn’t like?”

            “I suppose it _could_ be that. Or it _could_ be about what I read in the paper this morning.”

            Thomas arched an eyebrow, taking a long inhale to prepare himself for whatever it was O’Brien had decided to bestow upon him.

            “Don’t play coy with _me_ , Thomas. We’re friends. I know _I’d_ be upset if my secrets were unsettled.”

            “What are you talkin’ about?”

            “Haven’t you heard? They’ve shut down a few of the public houses in town- something _scandalous_ by the sounds of it- if you know how to read between the lines. Somethin’ about an anonymous tip by a concerned resident- they were houses of _ill-repute_ , one way or another. Thought you’d’ve heard about it, is all.”

            “I don’t visit many places of _ill-repute_ , Miss O’Brien. I don’t get the time off.”

            “Don’t you? Aren’t you worried one of the lads they’ve arrested is goin’ to point their finger?”

            Thomas pursed his lips, running through responses.

            “Oh as if I didn’t _know_ , Thomas. I’m your friend, I don’t care about all that- I only want to keep you out of trouble.”

            A moment passed.

            “I didn’t tell ‘em my real name. I’m not stupid.” He looked away an exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I recon it was Mrs Patmore- she gave me a little talk about it not too long ago.”

            “You’re smarter than that, Thomas.” O’Brien stubbed her cigarette. “Those places- you’re better than that. No sense bein’ caught through someone else’s loose tongue. You’ll have to find other ways- ways you can _use_ it.”

            Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Use it how, exactly?”

            “Well I imagine most men don’t want people poking in their affairs… if you get to be valet one day, who knows what sorts you’ll meet- do you suppose a Lord would let a valet spoil his reputation? There’s a pretty penny to be made, if you’re careful about it.”

            “And _how_ do I go about gettin’ people’s secrets without incriminatin’ myself?”

            “You’re a clever boy, Thomas. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” With that she crept or sauntered or _moved_ back inside, with that somehow threatening way she had of walking. _An ally indeed_. She’d certainly given Thomas something to think about. A smile twisted his mouth for the first time since his ‘little chat’ with Mrs Patmore. He threw his cigarette butt away, and his mind wondered back all through the day to what O’Brien had said.

_Maybe I shouldn’t care how I am- O’Brien doesn’t care, an’ just like everythin’ else it has some use. I **know** I didn’t choose this- I would never… people didn’t think coloured people were worth a damn either- still don’t, most of them- they take anythin’ different and… Fine. Hang everyone else- I’ll be sneaky about it and keep to their little ‘rules’, but they can’t stop me in my own time._

And that decided it. Fuelled by a wave of self-confidence, nastiness, and a pinch of arrogance, Thomas made his plans. Mr Watson and George were rid of within a month. Nothing _obvious_. George was ‘caught’ with one of the chambermaids in the pantry. (They were only kissing, but Thomas may have given a rather different impression to Mr Carson- simply _monstrous_ how young men are these days…) He was let go with a good reference and a firm slap on the wrist. The chambermaid was less lucky. And _Mr Watson_ , well. After George had been let go Thomas had pushed forward for his position, making himself as useful as possible, but Mr Watson was _suspicious_ , and kept either undoing the neat work Thomas had done before Mr Carson saw it, or taking Thomas’ credit for him. _That wouldn’t do_.

Thomas straightened and knocked on Mr Watson’s bedroom door smartly. This was by far his most risky move yet, but if it worked…

            Mr Watson opened the door. “What is it?”

            “Can we have a little chat, Mr Watson?”

            Mr Watson frowned that superior little smirk at him and opened the door. Dressed for bed, he’d clearly been interrupted in trying to sleep, the bed sheets were open. He sat on the only available chair, leaving Thomas standing, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer Thomas one.

            Thomas shut the door behind him and Mr Watson arched an eyebrow.

            “So what’s this all about, then? And make it good I was just about to turn in.”

            “I think we need to talk- about how things are between us.” _Men? Talk about **feelings?** _ Mr Watson scowled at the notion.

            “Only I feel that you don’t like me much, Mr Watson. An’ that’s fine, I don’t like you much either. But I can’t ‘ave you messing things up for me- so you’ve got to go.”

            “ _What_?” Anger in young men in a dangerous thing, and Thomas was liable for a smack if he wasn’t careful. Thomas took a few steps closer, folding his arms across his chest, and taking a moment to watch smoke billow across the room.

            “You have to go. You’re goin’ to hand in your notice, get a reference, and bugger off I-don’t-care where, an’ you’re goin’ to do it quietly- like the perfect gentleman.”

            Mr Watson laughed- took a few moments to himself, and let laughter overtake him. Thomas waited patiently.

            “ _You_ -” Mr Watson jabbed a finger in his direction, “-are bloody _mad_. This your little scare tactic, is it? Think you can _menace_ me out of here? Look at you- I mean… you _must_ be jokin’.”

            “You’ll leave, or I’ll make you leave.” _Careful- that counted as a threat_.

            “ _You_ ’ll get out of my bedroom before I go an’ tell Mr Carson the funny thing you just told me- or maybe I will anyway- might take you down a peg if you have to start over and everyone knows what a little _shit_ you are.”

            Thomas just smiled. “You go or I’ll tell Mr Carson things that will ‘ave you gone without a reference in the blink of an eye.” He tilted his head.

      “I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Thomas,” Mr Watson stubbed his smoke and stood, walking chest to chest “But you best get out now before you get hurt.”

      “Oh yes, hit me.” Thomas wasn’t afraid of being hit. “That’ll make what I have to say even more believable- go on, I’ll turn my head, see, so you can get a clear shot-”

      “You-” Mr Watson grabbed Thomas’ collar and _shoved_ him away. “Get the bloody hell out. _Now._ ”

      “Don’t you think people were suspicious of you an’ George?”

      “What?”

      “’ow close you were…. Always in each other’s bedrooms until late in the evening- I know you _know_ what I’m talkin’ about- we all thought it.” None of it was true- Thomas knew that for a certainty- but one way to make sure Mr Watson _wouldn’t_ be talkin’ to Mr Carson was to mention the ‘taboo topic’.

            Mr Watson flushed in anger, and then looked a little pale. “What the devil do you think you’re talkin’ about- George and me… what? We were friends- so what?”

            “Now I don’t care whatever way a man chooses to be. But…” Thomas couldn’t have stopped his smirk if he tried, “If you don’t hand in your notice I’ll tell Mr Carson you tried to put your hands on me.”

            “You _what_? You little- how did you even- you get out _right now_ Thomas I mean it- there was never anythin’ funny between George and me- you’re sick in the bloody head if you think-”

            “I don’t. But do you think Mr Carson will take such rumours _lightly_? At best you’ll be sacked for fear of gossip… at worse… I’ll let you imagine.”

“Maybe I’ll go and tell Mr Carson all of what you’ve just said, right now.”

“An’ maybe I’ll get there first. Maybe I won’t. Then it’ll be your word against mine and I don’t think that’ll end well for either of us.” Mr Watson was shaking he was so angry. _Work done, I think_. “I’ll give you til the end of the week to think about it- remember my room is closer to Mr Carson’s than yours… and if I catch you in _mine_ … well I guess I’ll know I was right. Good night, Mr Watson.”

            Mr Watson looked like he was using every fibre of his being not to throttle Thomas until he couldn’t tell anyone anything ever again. But he didn’t move when Thomas turned his back- _risky move, that one_ \- and walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

 

It was a tense couple of days- Mr Watson wasn’t down at breakfast, complaining of a stomachache, and all day Thomas waited for Mr Carson’s booming voice to call him into his office to explain himself. But it never happened. He stopped downing the wine left in glasses when he cleared supper plates, just in case. But two days later Mr Watson left- citing that he had to go back to his family town or some shite, Thomas couldn’t care less- he took his reference and all his problems with him. Now there were two vacancies open, something that Carson endlessly complained of (“Oh how fickle young men seem to be these days, can’t find a man dedicated to service, it’s not how it used to be…”). Luckily, there were two very eager lads to take their places.

 

So, aged twenty, but damned if he didn’t look a lot older- mother nature had certainly dealt her share of puberty- in 1911, Thomas Barrow was promoted to first footman, and Thomas _finally_ felt like he’d escaped and made his own path. For an added bonus, he was also _valet_ (though the title was not an official one) to Lord Grantham while they found Mr Watson’s replacement. Thomas had jumped some rungs in the ladder, indeed.


End file.
